Allure and Consequence
by Demosthenes23
Summary: Miss Clarke Griffin is courted by Mr. Roan Hawkins, an American adventurer who has traveled the world over. Everything is going swimmingly until she finds herself in unfamiliar waters with his cousin, Countess Alexandria Woods, a mysterious and beautiful woman who possesses the wealth of Kings and Queens, but is lacking the most important part of herself: her heart.
1. Chapter 1

**So this is fairly different than what I usually do, don't know how many of you will like this sort of language and whatnot, but I thought a fair amount of it was pretty funny actually. This is what happens when I haven't written anything for the Murdoch Mysteries fandom in ages.** **I usually hate love triangles but I think this could be fun.**

 **Reasons why this won't be like a typical Jane Austen story:**

 **The love triangle does not consist of two male suitors.  
**

 **There won't be tons of witty banter back and forth.**

 **This takes place in 1870s England because that is the first time women were allowed to own property (normally if no sons existed, the fortune and land would transfer to another male relative upon the father's death)**

 **There will be fighting and unladylike behaviour.**

 **It _will_ be similar in the respect that I won't be referring to race or colour at any point in this story even though some of the characters are POC. I just don't feel like focusing on those kinds of issues (being poor and/or gay or a _woman_ is issue enough). It's what makes The 100 so great.**

 **Other things to note:**

 **I didn't give them more period accurate names because I thought it might be too confusing who I was referring to. Also, I don't know the correct terms for their clothing and other items and whatnot, so that stuff will likely be inaccurate, if mentioned at all.**

 **Clarke and everyone else are their current ages.  
**

* * *

"Halt, Mistress Griffin! Miss Blake! I cannot allow you to commandeer those horses."

The two young women flinched at the sound of the stable boys gentle, yet irritated voice.

"We will not be gone long, Lincoln," she said, looking behind her. "We only wish to take a brief trot around the pond."

Lincoln crossed his well defined arms and frowned at her. "With all due respect, mistress, I do not believe you." He looked between them. "As you well know, it is far too late for two young ladies to be out and about unescorted. Master Griffin will be most displeased to hear of this transgression."

They shared a look and then Octavia thrust the reins into Clarke's hand and turned to face Lincoln fully. Clarke pivoted further to watch their interaction. Octavia strode over to the tall, strapping man confidently, putting on her most self serving demeanour, that is to say, charm. He eyed her warily, as well he should.

Octavia was practically _touching_ him when she said, "Then by all means _escort_ us, Mr. Sterling." She circled around the stable boy, skillfully directing his attention away from Clarke. Discreetly she signaled to her to keep going. "A fine specimen such as yourself should have no difficulties in keeping the ne'er-do-wells at bay."

While Lincoln was distracted by Octavia's blatant flirting and pretty smile, Clarke quietly led the horses outside of the stable, opened the gate, and mounted one of the horses as gracefully as she ever managed in her ample skirts. A few seconds later she heard Lincoln exclaim in discontent and then her friend was beside her, grinning like the devil.

"Come along then, Clarke!" she yelled, sticking her dainty boot heels into the poor beast.

Following suit, the girls raced over cobblestones for a nigh on a mile until they reached the edge of the city limits and the blessed pastures and rolling hills bathed in moonlight. The stars were shining brightly tonight, and not for the first time Clarke wondered what it would be like to live among them, to breathe in their majesty. She also wondered why she let Octavia manipulate her into these nighttime excursions. More often than not, she was the sole receiver of chastisement and censure, and then _she_ alone would be forbidden to leave the premises for days on end.

Now, she knew she enjoyed the thrill of disobedience, of danger, just as much as her friend. There was something so liberating in taking to the countryside, unchaperoned and free. It was hard to feel that way in the bustling city with near constant supervision, something Octavia purported to experience to an even greater degree when her brother was in town. Miss Blake being a recent acquaintance, Clarke had never met the gentleman, so she could not pass judgment on whether he was as domineering as Octavia made him out to be.

They both longed to live in the country, somewhere far away from all the smoke and noise and crime. The Blake's had lived in a modest establishment just south of London encompassing nearly eighty acres of land. Octavia's mother had died in childbirth, _her_ birth, and her father had never stopped blaming her for it. His grief led to the bottle which led to the crops failing one too many seasons, which led to their ruination. After his demise, the son did all he could to keep the farm from total disrepair, but alas he could not, and brother and sister had moved to the city, to share a small apartment with what little they had left to them. Then the militia came recruiting and Mr. Blake had joined, sending back everything he could to ensure his sister did not want for anything, especially the education he never had. Certainly, this did not sound like the actions of a domineering man, but Octavia was prone to willful fancy, so Clarke did not think on it overly much.

The two girls rode past the pond, to the top of their favourite hill, dismounted their steeds and unceremoniously fell on the grass, laughing. Octavia had nothing but she was the gayest, most spirited person Clarke had ever met, and nothing her mother could say or threaten would stop her from cultivating their friendship further. With any luck, Lincoln would stay put with his charges and not come after them. With further luck, Octavia would be able to persuade him not to tell the master of the house of their most recent transgression. Clarke thought it plain to see that the stable boy was sweet on her friend. Whether Octavia was aware of this affection or not, Clarke could not say. Certainly her conduct left much to be desired.

Not that Clarke herself was an angel. Gentlemen far and wide knew to give her a considerable berth after her infamous misconduct concerning her last suitor. Mr. Collins, an apprentice watchmaker, had pursued her most ardently for several months, but she had caught him seducing one of the local barmaids and consequently rejected his advances afterwards. He had been incredibly displeased with this rejection but a swift kick to the shin had sent him on his way for good. For this one act of justifiable violence she was a pariah among _both_ of the sexes.

Fingers entwined, Octavia and Clarke looked up to the clear skies, observing the heavens. Clarke itched to paint it in all its glory but there was no paint and canvas to be had at this particular moment. She would have to be content with laying eyes on the unknown realm of the Lord.

After awhile, Octavia turned on her side, propping her head up with an elbow and said, "Have you ever received intimate favours* from a man before, Clarke?"

Clarke glanced over briefly before returning her attention to the stars. "Are you asking because there is someone you wish to make violent love to**, Octavia?

"Perhaps," she replied, and Clarke could hear the smirk across her friends face.

"Are you asking because this someone is known to both of us?"

"Perhaps," she said, the smirk getting larger.

"And finally, my dearest friend, are you asking because you are unsure of how to secure such affections from said acquaintance?"

Octavia huffed in annoyance and nudged her shoulder. "Speak truly, Clarke, have you ever been kissed?"

Clarke let out a quiet sigh and shook her head against the grass. "I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure yet." She clenched her jaw thinking about Mr. Collins and the other woman. She forced herself to relax and then turned on her side as well. "Should I ever be so fortunate as to receive such favours, I won't hesitate to inform you of them. I hope you will pay me the same kindness when the joyous occasion comes to pass for yourself and Mr. Sterling."

Miss Blake averted her eyes, blushing prettily at this comment. Octavia gathered her composure and confidence and gazed into her eyes again. "I am at a loss as to how to proceed. I believe I have been exceedingly obvious in my intent."

"Perhaps that is the problem, Octavia. Perhaps you have been scaring him off with your constant love making. Or perhaps he thinks you do it all in jest, in aid of our excursions."

"In jest!" she exclaimed dramatically. "Why I have never jested in my life, Miss Griffin!" She slapped the grass between them. "I demand you take back such egregious charges at once!"

Clarke shook her head slightly, smiling. "Perhaps if you simply left him to himself for awhile he would come to you. Mr. Sterling is a shy, sensitive fellow, and I do believe he is rather bewildered by your effusive manners," she placed a hand on her shoulder, "winsome as they may be. Some find such attentions from a lady to be unseemly."

Octavia groaned, rolling onto her back once more. "How many times must I tell you that I am _not_ a lady, Clarke? I would much rather spend all day in the rain and muck than inside learning how to embroider cushions! Of all the useless things to know! My brother is an ass for insisting I gain a formal education! At least your father allows you to gain useful knowledge in addition to the useless aspects forced upon our sex!"

Clarke let her finish her oft repeated rant and then said, "He only wants the best for you."

"I know," she said with a long suffering sigh. She turned to face Clarke again, suddenly looking unsure of herself. "Do you think my brother would approve of Mr. Sterling as a potential suitor?"

If Clarke were to answer truthfully, the answer was a decided no. Mr. Sterling had many good qualities to recommend himself with, the least of which was his determination to teach himself how to read and write - and was perhaps better educated than Octavia herself - but the fact remained he was even poorer than The Blake's. The only thing Mr. Blake ever wanted was for his sister to have a prosperous future. Mr. Sterling was not likely to be able to provide that, which was probably the real reason he had disregarded his own feelings thus far, hoping Miss Blake would simply get over her girlish infatuation and look towards someone else.

Thankfully, Clarke was spared answering as three disreputable looking men suddenly loomed over them.

"Nice night, eh, ladies?" said the first one.

"I hope you don't mind our intrusion," said the second.

The third simply stared down at them in a way that made her shiver and curse the horses for not warning them ahead of time. They had been grazing a short distance away, and now Clarke saw that they were being held by a fourth brute, the meanest looking one yet.

Both women attempted to flee but were easily grasped round their cinched waists with filthy hands as soon as they rose to their feet. Clarke screamed for help before a disgustingly sweaty palm was placed over her mouth and nostrils, practically smothering her. She flailed around frantically as the loss of air weakened her limbs and sent her closer and closer to fainting. Then she heard a yelp and she looked over to find Octavia had bit her assailants hand, like she should have done, and elbowed him in the stomach. The third one knocked her on the ground before she could carry on screaming for someone to help them. It was a pointless exercise anyway, they were too far from the city or a neighboring village for anyone to hear them and come to their aid.

However, just as Clarke fainted, she could swear she heard a distant gunshot. _Lincoln had come for them after all_ , she thought, and knew no more.

* * *

The pungent aroma of smelling salts greeted her to the world anew. She blinked in confusion at the person before her, who was obviously not Lincoln, and her still frazzled mind assumed she was seeing things. The hooded person stared down at her without expression, a lantern illuminating their face in a slightly ghoulish way.

"You're a woman!" was the first thing she thought to say, rather stupidly she might add.

The woman arched an eyebrow and stood, holding out her gloved hand to assist Clarke to her feet. But all Clarke could stare at was the woman's legs, specifically the fact that she wore-

"Trousers. You're wearing trousers."

The mysterious woman was apparently the impatient sort because she placed the lantern aside, bent back down and hoisted Clarke to her feet instead, in a relatively easy manner, suggesting she had cause to rescue unsuspecting women all the time. The sudden movement sent another wave of dizziness through her and she couldn't help but to lean into the woman, and as she did so, she realized the woman was not even wearing a corset. What manner of woman was this?

Clarke turned her head to look at the stranger up close, and this time the moonlight allowed her to see that she was exceedingly beautiful, with a regal, almost ethereal countenance.

"Who are you?" she asked dumbly, (almost saying _what_ are you) wondering if perhaps she was even real, or some sort of spirit come out of the woods.

Instead of answering, which was incredibly rude, the woman propped her against one of the horses and went over to attend to Octavia, who was also lying on the ground. Clarke felt guilty for being distracted by the newcomer and not even giving a single thought to her friends welfare. She watched as the stranger applied more smelling salts and then helped Octavia to her feet as well. Miss Blake seemed far less astounded to find a woman capable of rescuing them and Clarke felt ashamed of herself and lack of faith in her own sex.

Finally their rescuer addressed them in a surprisingly dead voice, lacking all expression, not unlike her face. "I will escort you back to your homes and then I suggest you two young ladies find your beds once more and desist in further foolish behaviour."

The woman, who was alone, couldn't have been more than a few years older than them herself, but Clarke wasn't about to point either of these things out to her right then, not when Clarke wasn't entirely convinced she _wasn't_ a sprite intent on mischief.

After the three of them took to their horses, she attempted to get the story of what happened after she fainted.

"I aimed my rifle at them in turn and they fled," the woman replied simply.

A few more minutes passed before she asked, "What were you doing out here anyway?"

"I was attempting to hunt."

 _Curiouser and curiouser._

"Why that's positively brilliant!" exclaimed Octavia, seeming to come out of the daze she had been in. "I've been forbidden from ever holding a firearm again!

Clarke had learned that her brother had nearly had his head shot off when he allowed her to scare away the crows from their farmland once. Since then, all firearms were barred to her. That was six years ago.

"...your assistance, kind stranger, I could finally learn to use one!"

The woman didn't say anything for so long that Octavia's face fell and she muttered, "That is, if you would be willing to teach me."

"I think not," came the immediate reply.

Octavia looked ready to explode but Clarke shook her head, and her friend glowered from there on out. Further communication seemed pointless, so the remainder of the journey was completed in uncomfortable silence, at least from Clarke's perspective. They arrived at Octavia's home first. Clarke hugged her goodnight. The nearly mute stranger took the reins of the extra horse (Violet) and they proceeded to The Griffin's house, an iron gate running around it indicating as much. Once they were there, Clarke thanked her for her assistance, only earning a nod in reply, which also annoyed her.

Despite this annoyance, she couldn't help but to ask for her name again. "I'm sorry to be so bothersome on that score, but I simply must know the name of my rescuer." The woman just stared at her. "Perhaps I could receive an address as well, so that Miss Blake and I could call on you tomorrow and give proper thanks?"

This time the response consisted of the reins being handed over. "Good night, Miss Griffin."

The impoliteness of ignoring her attempts to express gratitude left her burning for some time later, and for this reason, as well as being reprimanded by her mother, Clarke found it difficult to get to sleep after her misadventure, and was accordingly very disgruntled by morning.

* * *

"I simply don't know what to do with her," said her mother from her father's workshop, the door of which was partially ajar.

Ignoring the disapproving looks she was getting from the servants, Clarke crept a little closer, feet bare and cold against the wood paneling. It was mid morning and she had already been chastised by both of her parents more than once. Admittedly, her father was always half hearted about such matters. Whoever said females were the softer sex was an imbecile.

"She is determined to vex me. She has no compassion for my poor nerves. Gallivanting off to who knows where in the middle of the night! She is a woman grown! She should not be doing such foolish things!"

If they knew the particulars of last night, she would surely have been sent off to the nunnery. As it is, she was under strict orders to be chaperoned upon leaving the house again, assuming she was ever permitted such an indulgence.

"I told you that Blake girl would be trouble but you refused to bar our daughter from seeing her! And now look what has become of it! She is disobedient and _rude_!"

"My dear Mrs. Griffin," came the quiet and composed voice of her father, "I must disagree with you on that point."

"Indeed?!" she said a little shrilly. "You must?!"

"Yes, Clarke is lovely in many respects but I'm afraid she has always been disobedient and rude. Miss Blake only enhances our daughters natural charms."

Clarke had to stifle a laugh at that remark.

"Oh, you are just as vexing as she!" exclaimed her mother. "Mark my words, Mr. Griffin, something terrible will befall our daughter if you do not put your foot down! Heaven knows she won't heed me!"

Clarke ducked into the parlour room moments before her mother stormed out of the workshop and marched upstairs to fume in peace and quiet as she had done countless times before.

"You may show yourself now, daughter," said her father, amusement evident in his tone.

When Clarke entered the smoky smelling room (her father was always puffing on a pipe) he didn't even look up from his latest endeavour, and simply continued to take precise measurements with various instruments. He was a moderately successful inventor, just as his father was before him, and he very rarely concerned himself with frivolous matters, namely running the household. Sometimes Clarke wished he would be a little more present in her own affairs, but she loved him dearly all the same.

"What are you working on, father?" she asked, coming around beside him to rest her arms on his hunched shoulders to look past. She stared at a series of interlocking metal pieces. It looked more like a puzzle than an invention.

"I haven't the foggiest," he replied, taking yet another measurement.

He often answered this way, preferring to explain his inventions only after he actually got them to work, that is assuming, he did. An exception to this rule was a project he had been working on for some time involving photovoltaic cells. Her father was convinced it was possible to harness the power of the sun and use it as a new source of energy. Unfortunately, try as he might, he simply couldn't crack the code. ***

"While I do enjoy the sport of vexing your mother on occasion," he casually said, "perhaps you could try a little harder _not_ to. She is of a more delicate sensibility than you or I. No doubt her forays into the world of the less fortunate has heightened her sense of impending doom."

Clarke's mother thought herself something of a healer, and would tend to those in need to the best of her ability should they come calling. Consequently, there had been a number of unusual characters outside their gates over the course of the past few years. By most accounts, The Griffin's were odd ducks and very rarely got invited to parties and balls, and Clarke was ever so thankful for this. Like Octavia, she had never been one for airs and graces, though when she was younger, she had thought herself a bit of a princess, and had a number of frilly, dreadful dresses and hats, the only evidence of which resided in a single photographic still.

By the time she was eleven, she decided she wanted to be more like her father and had attempted to learn the required maths and sciences needed to understand his profession. Unfortunately, her mind simply didn't work like that and she was unable to follow in his footsteps and become his apprentice, not that her mother would have allowed such a thing anyway. Clarke instead focused on her drawings and paintings, in the hope, perhaps the vain hope, that she would one day be recognized for her talent. Few women were, regardless of the field of study.

"I do worry about you too, Clarke. I do not wish to see you get hurt."

It was very rare for her father to be so direct and express his feelings openly.

"I shall try harder not to be so vexing, father," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

She turned to leave, intent on allowing him to concentrate on his work.

"See that you do. I do not wish to employ more severe forms of punishment."

Clarke was taken aback by the threat. Her father had never used the strap on her before, and doubtless, neither of them were keen to undergo the experience.

"Yes, father," she muttered.

* * *

Since Octavia was not allowed to visit and her painting supplies had been locked up tight, she had little to occupy herself with over the next fortnight. Every time she picked up a book to wile away the hours, her mind wandered back to that eventful night and the mysterious stranger that saved them from ruination. The woman's face was imprinted on her memory now and it was driving her to complete distraction because she could not draw or paint it in any way. Clarke was desperate to discover her identity so she could thank her, but she couldn't even leave the house, so making inquiries was impossible. She wasn't much for proper conduct, but in matters such as these, she thought it extremely important to pay her dues, whether or not the other party desired to receive them.

Octavia had not been found out, (Lord knows how considering the state of their clothing) so half way through her incarceration Clarke left her a hastily scrawled note and a simplistic ink portrait under a loose cobblestone just outside their gate in the hopes that her friend would do what she could not. The portrait was woefully lacking in depth but she had very little time to herself these days, and there were eyes and ears everywhere. Effectively, she was a prisoner in her own home. It wasn't the first time, and would doubtless be the last.

About a week later she discreetly retrieved the response, the contents of which sent her into another bout of melancholy. Octavia had learned nothing of their saviour. No one seemed to know who she was.

 _Perhaps she was a sprite after all_? thought Clarke gloomily, as she ambled around the stable aimlessly. She fed Violet some oats and patted her head absentmindedly.

"You are more fortunate than I," she murmured to the gentle creature. "Would that I could be so unburdened."

When she noticed Mr. Sterling watching her she turned on her heel and left. Logically, she knew it wasn't his fault that she was housebound. To persist in folly even after he had caught them was inexcusable, and tempting fate. Lincoln was an upright sort of fellow who cared for her friends wellbeing. And hers as well, she supposed. Of course he would only do as he must.

* * *

The minute she was released from her metaphorical chains, she insisted on calling on Octavia. Her mother being her designated chaperon, it took awhile to convince her to allow this visit. Eventually she relented and Clarke practically skipped gaily the whole way there like a child. The Blake's lived in a less prosperous part of town so they had the additional protection of one of their manservants, Mr. Kane. He had spent some years in the army before losing a hand and retiring. Despite this lack of appendage, it was said Mr. Kane knew how to defend himself and others quite astutely. Thus far, Clarke had never had cause to witness his abilities.

The two friends bounded into each others arms upon their reunion and conversed animatedly for some time over colder and colder cups of tea. Then, because Clarke was in need of fresh air, they went out for a stroll on the outskirts of town, their three chaperons (Octavia's governess and keeper among them) demanding they keep within sight at all times.

Arm in arm, Octavia casually said, "How is Mr. Sterling faring? Is he quite put out by our putting him on the spot?"

"To answer your first question, he appears to be faring as he always does, that is to say well. As to anything else, I would not know, I have refrained from speaking with him this past fortnight."

Octavia gave her a reproachful look but otherwise didn't make her displeasure known. They walked for some time in a tense sort of quiet, of the uncomfortable variety.

Then, abruptly, Octavia glanced at her sideways and said, "Have you ever seen a fight, Clarke?"

"Of course I have, Octavia," she replied with a frown. "One can hardly avoid them in the city. There are drunkards everywhere."

"Granted, but have you ever been to a fight club for gentlemen?"

Clarke rolled her eyes. "If they're for gentlemen, I could hardly have attended."

"Would you like to?"

Clarke pursed her lips, not liking at all where this was going. "Octavia, I have just spent a fortnight as prisoner, unable to pursue my greatest passion in life. Agreeing to such a scheme would be the pinnacle of idiocy."

"And I do apologize for that, my dearest friend, but I greatly desire to attend this event, and I would rather not go alone." She squeezed Clarke's arm affectionately. "It could be very dangerous to do so."

Clarke had a sudden urge to throttle her manipulative friend but with some effort quelled her murderous instinct and instead smoothed out her dress to give her free hand something else to do. She was beginning to understand how her parents felt on a day to day basis dealing with herself.

"Why precisely is it so important for you to attend this...distinguished event?"

Octavia looked at her earnestly and said, "I have it on good account that Mr. Sterling will be among the participants."

Incredulously, "And who's account would that be?"

"You know me, Clarke, I hear things."

 _Oh yes indeed! You hear all sorts of things, but when I ask for your assistance, you are unable to aid me!_

"Octavia," she said, losing her patience, "if Mr. Sterling were a frequent participant of this club, surely we would know of it. He could hardly hide the multitude of cuts and bruises he would accumulate."

"This will be his first bout of fisticuffs." She squeezed Clarke's arm again. "I _must_ be there."

"Supposing I did agree to accompany you, how do you propose we gain entrance into this _gentleman's_ club? We can hardly just walk straight in."

Octavia grinned at her slyly. "Oh I would not be so sure of that."

As usual, Clarke was caught between a rock and a hard place. If she didn't accompany Octavia to this event and something happened to her, she would never forgive herself. If she did accompany her, she would likely never see the light of day again. Still, since Wells death the previous year, she had never expected to find such devoted companionship again. Consequently, she could not find it in her heart to disappoint her only friend.

Smoothly, Clarke glanced behind them to see that their chaperons were still well out of earshot. "Very well," she said with a sigh. "I will accompany you."

Octavia was about to express her joy in a boisterous manner when Clarke cut her off with a single look. "When does this fight take place?"

"Tonight," Octavia responded, having the good grace to look ever so slightly abashed.

 _A den full of fighting men, what could possibly go awry?_

* * *

A woolen hood over her head, she snuck out of the house an hour before the fighting was to commence. Clarke tread swiftly over the well worn path to The Blake's apartment, avoiding any and all problem areas. There would be enough to contend with as the night progressed. When she arrived just outside, Octavia gestured to her from the dark alleyway between the buildings. Clarke hastened over and Octavia pulled her deeper into the gloom, into an alcove of sorts, away from prying eyes. Then she thrust some unpleasant smelling clothing into her hands.

Furling her nostrils she said, "Octavia, what is this?"

Rather than answer, Octavia simply began to unbutton her dress.

"Octavia!" she exclaimed, aghast, strangely unable to look away. In her surprise, she dropped the clothing on the ground. "What on earth are you doing?!"

Miss Blake just smirked as she stepped out of her dress and threw it onto a previously laid out blanket in order to keep the discarded clothing clean. If nothing else, the dirt and grass stains from their last excursion would have given them away. Clarke couldn't understand why she kept staring at her friend, or why her heartbeat had quickened and her mouth had gone painfully dry.

"This blasted lace always gives me grief. Help me undo my corset...Clarke?"

Octavia caught her eye and Clarke finally mastered herself and came to her friends aid. Her fingers trembled slightly as she undid the rest of the lace and the corset was released, revealing her cotton chemise. This Octavia swept off too without a second thought and Clarke stood still as a statue, unsure of what to do with her hands. Octavia bent over right in front of her to scoop something off the ground and then turned around to face her. Clarke's eyes strained painfully in the effort required not to glance down.

"To complete the illusion, we must wrap ourselves like Viola did in _Twelfth Night_."

Violently, Clarke cleared her throat, eliciting a puzzled look from Octavia. "Indeed? I take it that is where you conceived of this idea?"

If her voice came out unusual, Octavia did not appear to notice. She was sure her face was ablaze though, producing enough glow to be seen through the relative dark of the alleyway.

"Education at its finest," she grinned. Her face fell slightly. "And well, if I'm being perfectly honest...the stranger from that night inspired me too."

"I see," she responded, perhaps more tersely than she intended to.

"Anyway, I suppose I should wrap myself now so as to avoid being mistaken for a lady of the night,****" she said in an amused manner. Clarke was excessively relieved Octavia hadn't asked her to do that for her. While Octavia wrapped herself, she raised an eyebrow at Clarke. "Hurry up and get dressed, Clarke, we haven't got much time!"

She was very uncomfortable getting mostly naked in public, even if it was in the dark, fearful that someone would walk by at any moment. And of course this person would recognize her and run off to inform her parents about her infamous conduct. When they learned of her assault of Mr. Collins, her mother pitched a fit, and carried on like doomsday was upon them. Her father however simply winked at her when her mother wasn't looking. Later on he gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head muttering, 'Well done, daughter, well done. I never cared for that nincompoop.***** You will find someone worthy of you yet. Of that there can be no doubt.'

Rushed for time, Octavia took it upon herself to wrap Clarke. If she thought she had been uncomfortable before, this was beyond compare. Every time Octavia's fingers brushed against her bare skin, she couldn't control the shivers that surged through her, and by the time her friend was finally finished, Clarke was on the verge of collapse once more. She pushed through her incomprehensible reaction and gathered the remainder of her clothes. It took surprisingly little time to don men's clothing, for which she was very grateful.

Before she knew what was happening, Octavia stepped in close again and started pulling out her hair pins, shoving them into her mouth as she went along. "For the wig," she murmured around them. "We can't have your hair done up all prettily like a woman's, now can we?"

With the pins out, the bulk of Clarke's hair was easier to mat down and shove within the confines of a short blonde wig. This too smelled a bit. Clarke didn't even want to know where Octavia had acquired these items. By now she was just along for the ride, wherever that may lead.

Octavia likewise stuck on a brown wig and then held up two bits of what appeared to be fur. Clarke groaned internally as Octavia applied a thin paste to her upper lip and stuck on the moustache. She made Clarke do the same for her and then tossed her a top hat to complete the ensemble. Octavia placed one on her head as well and struck a ridiculous macho pose.

"How do I look?" she said in as deep a voice as she could manage, which simply made her sound like a schoolboy on the verge of manhood.

The suit was somewhat ill fitting and creased.

"Dashing. Now stop behaving like a ninny, and let's get this over with."

Octavia pulled out her pocket watch and squinted at the dials before yelling girlishly. "Is that the time?! Why, we must be off with all haste!"

She grabbed Clarke's hand and pulled her almost out of the alleyway before Clarke reminded her that men don't hold hands. It would be a miracle if they managed to make it through the entire evening without giving themselves away. They were a trainwreck waiting to happen.

Clarke mourned for the paint and canvas never to be seen again.

* * *

 ***I just mean kiss basically**

 ****not in a sexual way, more or less another way to say charm**

 *****In 1876, the first solar cells were created with selenium, but they didn't become energy efficient until after the 1950s when silicon was utilized instead.**

 ******prostitute**

 *******idiot**

 **Well, that's it for now. These are longer chaps than I usually do so it might be awhile before the next update. I expect I'll be updating once a week though. Anyway, thanks for giving this thing a shot! :) And let me know what you liked, didn't like about this!  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**I can't believe I didn't even realize the parallels to 304 until after I had written this. Lmao.**

* * *

The gentleman's club was fit to burst by the time they arrived. According to Octavia, this event was an annual tradition in which the London toffs* opened the clubs prestigious doors to everyone (as long as they weren't too disreputable looking or a woman). There would be a number of fights and the champion would go home with a small fortune. It was suddenly very clear to Clarke why Lincoln was putting himself in harms way. She wondered if Octavia realized he was doing this for her as well and if that was the real reason she had been so adamant about attending.

They pushed through the crowd that was already lining the entryway, eliciting many complaints and dark looks. In her keen desire to lay eyes on her hearts desire, Octavia was oblivious to them all, and Clarke was afraid she would trouble the wrong fellow and start a fight of her own. One 'gentleman' in particular looked quite murderous when Octavia elbowed him in the stomach and showed not the slightest sign of remorse. She muttered an apology to the man on behalf of her friend, though she wasn't sure he even heard it for the venue was quite boisterous and brimming with energy.

Clarke prayed for safe passage and was granted it until her single track minded friend finally came to a halt at the front of the crowd. They were on the lowest step of a downward series and the rectangular 'ring' was just beneath them. A single waist high rope designated its boundaries. Two men were in the ring, one of which was already sprawled on the ground. Neither of them was Mr. Sterling for which Octavia seemed equal parts relieved and consternated. What if her information had been inaccurate and they had gone to all this trouble simply to leave?

The club was far smokier than that even of her father's workshop and within minutes of being here, her eyes were stinging painfully. She resisted the urge to rub at them, never understanding how men could stand fumes in such density for prolonged periods of time. The effort required to get here by foot had left them considerably winded and sweating profusely, and consequently Clarke was sure the glue holding her moustache in place would give way at any moment and she would be unceremoniously thrown out, or worse. This too she resisted the urge to pat down, afraid even the slightest touch might dislodge it even more readily than her excretions.

Another set of unfamiliar gentleman walked into the ring and began rolling up their sleeves. A mediator called for silence and then announced their names, Lord Rothenberg and Roan Hawkins. There was some muttering at the latters name and Clarke instinctively paid more attention to Mr. Hawkins. He was a fine looking specimen, not unlike Mr. Sterling, though perhaps not quite as muscular. Lord Rothenberg by comparison looked frail as could be and as if he had never done a single days labour in his life; likely he hadn't. Clarke couldn't fathom why the man was even there. Pride and arrogance she supposed.

The men bowed to each other and then put their dukes up as it were, circling for many seconds before throwing the first punches. The overly boisterous cacophony of the crowd commenced in short order when the fight came to an abrupt end. One punch to the jaw was all it took to subdue Lord Rothenberg. Clarke wasn't too concerned about what this could mean for Mr. Sterling, (should he even be here) because of Lord Rothenberg's previously mentioned frailty.

It was several more tame fights before Lincoln made an appearance. The winners of each bout of fisticuffs remained ring side, so when Octavia grasped her arm, squealing in excitement, she immediately drew the attention of Mr. Hawkins. Discreetly, Clarke pinched Octavia's side and murmured to her to contain herself. Even as she said this, she noticed yet another pair of eyes on them. She nearly fainted when she saw Mr. Kane frowning in their direction from across the ring on an upper level. As long as he didn't come any closer they would be fine.

The mediator announced the next two participants, the other man being Mr. Charles Pike. Lincoln's opponent was of a shorter stature, but he was just as well endowed in terms of the size of his chest. As all the fights began, so too did this one. The men circled one another for some time before attempting to subdue the other. A series of punches were thrown and evaded on both sides, and then Mr. Pike landed a heavy handed blow to the side of Lincoln's face. Octavia grabbed her arm again and her friend's grip was so tight, Clarke had no hope of extricating herself without causing even more of a scene. Lincoln staggered back a bit, leaning on the rope briefly, but then gathered his wits once more and returned to the fight with an even greater glimmer of determination in his eye. Or perhaps that was Clarke's unshed tears. The smoke was irritating them to such a degree that she could no longer help but to wipe at them.

Mr. Pike attempted to hit Lincoln again, but Lincoln anticipated the blow and dodged it, returning his own punch to Pike's side. The man grunted in pain and lashed back. Perhaps one hundred or more punches were thrown before Lincoln's youth and therefore greater physical fitness aided in the final knockout blow of the older fellow. Mr. Pike was enraged to lose so early on in the proceedings, so it was up to the mediator (a very large bearded fellow) to drag him out of the club.

The mediator came back and announced the end of round one. The remaining opponents names (which had presumably been previously written onto scraps of paper) were presently thrown into a pristine top hat, one that had likely never been worn before and was only used for this express purpose. These were picked out at random. Two men she had no interest in whatsoever took to centre stage once more and proceeded to beat each other senseless. It was somewhat difficulty not to glance away at any point and pretend to be actually enjoying herself. She didn't agree with her mother on a lot of points, but this sort of organized sport was incomprehensible to both of them. Too many blows to the head could only lead to dull senses...but perhaps that was the issue to begin with.

Lincoln had to fight again almost right away but thankfully his opponent was nothing like Mr. Pike had been, and the strapping boy easily won the match, tired as he was. Clarke hoped he would have enough time to regain his strength before his next fight commenced. Certainly if he didn't, Octavia would remove all sense of feeling from her arm altogether. Clarke was doing her best to avoid looking in Mr. Kane's direction. It was easier said than done as he was almost constantly staring at them.

Mr. Hawkins made his way back into the ring a couple of fights later. Before the match began, he stared at her, smirked slightly and then proceeded to take out his man without receiving a single blow to any part of his anatomy. Now Clarke was beginning to understand why his name had elicited so much muttering and she began to fear for Lincoln should he have to face Mr. Hawkins. He was clearly the best fighter here. He had tattoos on both forearms, something only incredibly disreputable sorts obtained, and she assumed he was some sort of pirate who wanted to make a mockery of the well-to-do land dwellers.

The participants were whittled down one by one, the fights getting more desperate, until none of the toffs were left in play. And then to her and Octavia's chagrin, Lincoln and Mr. Hawkins were paired to fight. Mr. Sterling was already the worse for wear, whereas Mr. Hawkins looked fit as a fiddle. Clarke wouldn't describe him as cleanly and becoming, because that he was not. He had longer, lankier hair than those present and dirt on his face. She doubted he had bathed in months, which simply reinforced the notion of his being a pirate come briefly ashore for mayhem and mischief.

Lincoln took his time sizing his formidable opponent up, and said opponent allowed this study, perhaps only in the hopes of eliciting a more interesting fight. Mr. Hawkins was obviously self assured of his abilities and not worried in the slightest that he would lose. Lincoln came at him fast and furious, with an exceptional burst of energy the likes of which had not been seen thus far, and Hawkins' smirk fell off his face in his surprise. Hawkins barely evaded being pummeled, and for once, a multitude of blows landed on his sides, head and arms, the latter of which he kept securely in front of his face, in an effort to alleviate the worst of the onslaught to his comely features. Hawkins was literally on the ropes, and if Lincoln had not run out of steam, Clarke was sure he would have succeeded in subduing Hawkins.

Alas, Hawkins was clever enough to ride out the storm and when the assault abruptly ended, he smirked at the wheezing, staggering man and landed a few well placed blows to various parts of Mr. Sterlings anatomy. Lincoln fell over like a sack of potatoes and didn't move for several seconds. Octavia's lament was swallowed up by the raucous shouting of the crowd. Then he struggled to his feet, garnering fanatical enthusiasm from the crowd when he succeeded, albeit with the aid of the rope. Clarke was struggling to maintain her place on the lowest step. If they were forced down they would be almost in the ring with the opponents.

Panting heavily, one eye nearly clamped shut, Lincoln held his fists up anew. Though they were standing very close, much too close for Clarke's liking, she could not make out what Hawkins was saying to Lincoln. She could only tell that he appeared to be impressed with Lincoln's dogged, and let's be quite frank, _foolish_ persistence. As much as she wanted Lincoln to win, there was no way he was going to in his current woebegone state. Clearly Octavia agreed with her assessment for she dropped down from the step and onto the ground below. Clarke hissed at her to come back and when Octavia didn't heed her, she dropped down too and grabbed her arm.

The mediator leveled a threatening stare in their direction when Octavia broke free and approached Lincoln in order to persuade him to concede the battle. Clarke willed herself not to glance up at Mr. Kane and moved after her friend who was attempting to get Lincoln's attention. Lincoln was so focused on Mr. Hawkins that he took no note of her. However, Mr. Hawkins _did,_ and while he was distracted by their approach, Lincoln managed to land a blow to his unmarred face. Encouraged by this, he swung again. Unfortunately, Hawkins regained his wits exceptionally fast and blocked the blow. Octavia screamed when Hawkins caused Lincoln to lose his footing again, caused him to crumple on the ground, unmoving.

Her friend ducked under the rope, losing her top hat as she did so, and went to his aid, placing a trembling hand to the side of his bruised and beaten face. Clarke followed her as the mediator announced Hawkins the winner of the bout. She dropped down beside Octavia to check at least that Lincoln still had breath left to him. She breathed out a sigh of relief when she indicated the signs of life.

"He will revive in time," she comforted her friend.

There was a physician on hand who told them to be gone, and it was only at Clarke's insistence that Octavia came with her before she either gave them up completely or the large bearded fellow intervened. In her heightened awareness of her surroundings, she could feel several sets of undesirable eyes on them as they made their way through a side entrance and out into an alleyway. Octavia immediately lost all control of her wits and flung herself into Clarke's arms, lamenting with considerable vigour.

"Mr. Sterling is a healthy, vigorous man, Octavia," she said, patting her back and ignoring the strange stares they were getting from some smoking individuals. "He shall no doubt regain his former bloom with all haste."

"And if he does not?" Octavia cried in a very unmanly fashion. "What shall I do then? I cannot lose him, Clarke!"

The men were watching them with clear suspicion and distaste and Clarke deemed it wise to leave the premises now. This decision became all the more paramount when she extricated herself from her friends embrace only to find Octavia's moustache had disappeared. She found it resting on her shoulder. Pocketing it swiftly, she guided Octavia out of the alleyway and raised a hand, hoping to hail a cab. Thankfully, they were in a busy part of the city and there were a number of carriages out and about yet this evening.

It was a liberating experience to simply raise her hand and have the driver move towards them. On several occasions, while dressed as a woman, any men in the vicinity had taken precedence over her own need. She thought it a strange thing. Young women, and women in general, were usually more susceptible to unfavourable attentions, hence her strict guardianship, and yet, they were left vulnerable more often than not. Was it simply that the driver assumed they could not pay?

In any case, the cab was before them in short order and Clarke was simultaneously helping Octavia in and telling the driver where to go. Her own moustache had come off half way, making her look the fool, so she ripped it off the rest of the way, wincing ever so slightly at the unpleasantness. She held Octavia's hand the entire journey back to her apartment, and then paid the driver with money she had brought with in case an admittance fee was required. She dashed into the alleyway and retrieved the large blanket containing their clothing, handing it to her stock still friend.

"Must you go?" inquired Octavia dully, knowing full well the answer.

"Indeed I must, my dear friend," she replied, placing her hands on either side of her face. She smiled kindly at her friend, trying to invoke courage and confidence where there was none. Finally Octavia nodded her acceptance of the situation and Clarke turned to leave.

"Clarke, you're still wearing men's attire."

"If Mr. Kane returns home before me, I shall never see the light of day again."

"Go."

Clarke needed no further prompting and took off like the horses at the racetrack. It was uplifting and miraculous how fast, how _easy_ it was to move in this way while out of her constricting clothing. There was no holding of skirts or stumbling in dainty shoes. It was not proper for women to run, nor should they ever have any need to.

 _What utter poppycock_ , she thought to herself as she weaved in and out of alleyways, and around startled passersby. By the time she returned home, she was fully in love with men's clothing and would happily wear it for the rest of her days. Hastily, she put aside her silly dream and climbed the gate surrounding The Griffin house. It would be some time before they allowed her a key. In comparison to her usual attire, the climb was exceedingly simplistic. Smugly, she smiled to herself and her accomplishment.

She froze in place when a carriage pulled up just outside the gate. Thankfully no lantern light had yet reached her. Like a deluded prisoner, she rushed back to the confines of her cell, slipping into the house through the unlocked door to the kitchens. As the front door opened, she crept up the stairs like a thief in the night, carefully avoiding the one that always creaked. Clarke plopped into bed, pulled the covers up high even though she was sweltering. She heard footsteps approaching and then she remembered the wig that was still residing on her head. She ripped it off and shoved it under her pillow a moment before the door handle turned and someone peeked their head in.

Since her back was to the doorway, she couldn't be certain it was indeed Mr. Kane, though logic dictated that it must be. Male servants were not supposed to enter her chambers, especially not at night, but he was the head servant, so he enjoyed more privilege and responsibility than the others. Even so, he always kept decorum intact and only peered into the room unless absolutely necessary to do otherwise. After a few interminable seconds in which her heart beat like a war drum, the door closed once more and the footsteps receded, heading towards the basement and the servants quarters.

Clarke let out a massive sigh and threw back the sheets. She then removed all of the wet, odorous clothing and bindings from her person and hid them underneath her bed. Next she washed herself down with a cloth and water from the basin always at hand. Feeling reasonably cleanly again, she put on her nightgown and slipped back under the covers, grinning to herself as she drifted off in exhaustion.

* * *

There was much hullabaloo with regards to Mr. Sterling the next morning, mostly from that of her mother. While Lincoln was free to do with his body as he saw fit, the severity of his injuries were considerable and would impede his ability to perform his duties. More than that inconvenience though, Mrs. Griffin did not enjoy seeing one of her own in such an undesirable state. She performed a second diagnostic of the stable boy (keeping him clothed at all times mind you for Miss Griffin and her husband were watching), and then satisfied that the blows to the head were not life threatening, she allowed him to return to his loft in the stable to rest.

Predictably, Octavia arrived at their home later that morning. It was evident to Clarke that her friend was only just managing to maintain her composure. Clarke proceeded to publicly inform her of Mr. Sterlings physical afflictions, to which Octavia expressed her astonishment, and then the two young ladies walked right by Mr. Kane and out back, towards the stables.

They climbed the ladder to the loft and within seconds of seeing Lincoln in such a pitiable state, Octavia flung herself at him, crying into his chest. The resting man was doubtless surprised out of his wits and such sudden contact, particularly contact with the object of his hearts desire, and accordingly didn't react at first, stiff as a board. It was several moments before he brought his arms up to embrace her back. He looked up at Clarke who just nodded and headed back down the ladder to give them some privacy. To go through so much trial and tribulation only to fail in the end must have been horribly disappointing. Financially speaking Lincoln was in the same dire straits he had always been. He would never be able to properly support a wife and family, not unless he suddenly inherited a fortune from a long lost relative. And that sort of thing only happened in the romance novels, which she certainly did not read.

If only he could have bested Mr. Hawkins, her friend could have been happy with the one she loved. Now their union was unlikely to ever come to pass. Mr. Sterling would never willingly make Octavia destitute. As long as she remained unmarried, her brother would continue to support her with all he could. After that, she would be at the mercy of her husbands income, and perhaps whatever else she could manage to scrounge up. It would be a hard life if they were to ever marry.

Clarke often dreamed of the mysterious woman who had rescued them, but last night she had dreamed of Mr. Hawkins. She couldn't fathom why. He was a no good pirate who had stolen away Lincoln's one chance at a new start. If Clarke were braver and knew where to find the pirate, she would no doubt attempt to steal the purse back. While she waited for Octavia and Lincoln to console one another to their hearts content, she pondered a scheme in which she snuck down to the docks at night and onto the pirate ship and took all of Mr. Hawkins - if indeed that was his real name – booty.

Clarke was startled out of her daydream by none other than Mr. Kane.

"The tea and biscuits are ready, mistress."

"Thank you, Marcus. I shall inform Miss Blake directly."

There was some movement up above and Clarke cursed internally at her friends poor timing. It was painfully obvious where Octavia was, so neither made a move and they just stared at one another until she finally broke the silence. "You may leave now."

Mr. Kane raised an eyebrow at the curt dismissal but did as he was told. A moment later, Octavia appeared on the ladder, looking quite the mess. Clarke wiped away the remainder of the tear tracks with a monogrammed handkerchief, as well as pulled out a few bits of hay from her hair. Satisfied with her friends appearance, they walked arm in arm back into the house to partake of the longest held British tradition.

* * *

A few days later as Clarke was sketching yet another portrait of the mystery woman's face, they received an unexpected visitor. She nearly dropped the sketchbook when she saw who it was.

"By all means, miss, don't stop on my account," he smirked.

Clarke stared wide eyed at the gentleman for a moment longer before regaining her composure and standing up to greet him with her mother. She could see him trying to catch a glimpse of her artwork, so she flipped the book closed. Clarke rarely shared her pictures or paintings with anyone outside of the household, save for Octavia, who predictably thought she was brilliant.

"Mrs. Griffin...daughter, allow me to introduce Mr. Hawkins," said her father, who was standing beside the gentleman in question. And he _was_ a gentleman. At least in appearance. His suit was pristine, as was his face, all trace of stubble and dirt removed. His long, lanky hair had been cut down considerably and was now clean and coiffed in a fashionable manner. His shoes were polished and he was even wearing a pair of white gloves. Though she suspected this had more to do with the fact that his hands might have been damaged a bit in the fighting pit rather than as act of the utmost decorum.

He kissed her mothers proffered hand. Reluctantly, she held out her own as well, which he promptly took and kissed. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."

He smiled at her, and she saw he had very nice white teeth, and not at all what one would expect with that of a pirate, or a typical Englander. "The pleasure is all mine," he returned in his deep husky American voice which inexplicably elicited a shiver.

"Mr. Hawkins has recently finished a three year long campaign around the world," informed her father, beaming at the man. He usually only reserved that look for the completion of working inventions, or scones. "A most admirable accomplishment."

"That must have been quite the adventure," said her mother.

"Yes, it was," he replied with another charming smile. He glanced at Clarke as he said, "I learned a great deal of secrets."

She swallowed nervously, wondering if he was about to give her up, wondering why on earth he was even _here_.

"Oh do tell!" said her father excitedly. He rarely left the city and missed the wandering days of his youth.

Hawkins smirked at her again before returning his gaze to her father. "Maybe another time, sir. I'm afraid I have a previous engagement and can't stay for long." He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small purple purse. This he handed to her father. "See that Mr. Sterling receives that."

Clarke could hardly believe that he was here, let alone handing over the proceeds of his victory.

"Do you not wish to give it to him yourself, sir?" said her father puzzedly. "He is just out back."

"You seem like an honourable, trustworthy man. I know you will do the right thing as doubtless you have done countless times before."

Her father practically blushed at the compliment and Clarke had to stifle a groan at his conduct.

Hawkins tipped an imaginary hat to all three of them, giving Clarke a slightly lingering, _knowing_ gaze before turning on his heel and disappearing just as suddenly as he had arrived. It was sometime after that that her heart returned to a regular rhythm.

* * *

Nearly a fortnight after that visit, Octavia called upon her and threw herself into Clarke's arms at the earliest convenience, for _her_ that is. Clarke nearly lost the painting she had been working on when she staggered back under her friends onslaught. Octavia was considerably unintelligible and by all accounts hysterical, and doubtless garnering many disapproving glares from the household and the ruckus she was making. When she finally released Clarke she held up her hand, or rather placed it so close to her eyes so as to make it impossible to view. Clarke took her friends trembling hand and held it back a bit to finally focus on the plain silver ring that resided there.

"He proposed!" shrieked Octavia needlessly. "And I accepted!"

Clarke just stood there stupidly, at a loss for words.

"Well, _say_ _something_!"

She blinked a few times, her senses rushing back all at once, and smiled, genuinely. "Why, that's marvelous news, Octavia! I am so very delighted for you both! Congratulations!"

Octavia squealed in happiness and pulled her in for a too tight hug once more. When she had calmed down she whispered in her ear, "Lincoln is most skilled at intimate favours."

Miss Blake let her go and winked at Clarke who was again at a loss for words. Octavia took her arm, melting into her side. Undoubtedly they would have ventured outdoors now if it were not pouring rain. "It was wonderful," her friend elaborated dreamily. "I shall be very much surprised if I ever tire of the experience." She squeezed Clarke's arm affectionately. "Oh, I very much desire for you to share in my good fortunes."

"When is the happy day to occur?" Clarke asked, ignoring the flutter of despair in her stomach. If Mr. Collins had not turned out to be a cad, doubtless she would have already been married and had experiences far beyond that of kissing.

Octavia stilled beside her and laughed heartily. "Oh, heavens me! We haven't discussed that far ahead yet! I'm afraid we were quite caught up in one another for such discourse!" She winked at Clarke again and Clarke was beginning to get irritated and jealous to a slight degree. A very slight degree.

The two girls animatedly talked for some time, discussing everything from which church to get married in, to which dress to wear. Swept up in the conversation, she offered her services in that regard. "I could design your dress, Octavia. Granted I have little experience in such fields of study but I do believe with Monroe's assistance, I could produce a fitting wedding dress for you to wear."

Miss Blake burst into tears at the offering, smothering Clarke with affectionate kisses on her cheeks. And as luck would have it, that was the precise moment Mr. Hawkins made his next appearance. Clarke caught sight of him (and Mr. Kane) and then the painting nearby which of course drew his attention straight away and he observed it with growing amusement. Clarke observed his observations with growing mortification.

"Octavia, we have a guest!" exclaimed Clarke, and her friend abruptly stopped her outpouring of affection.

Octavia wiped the tears from her cheeks and turned to greet said guest. "Good day, sir, I apolo-" She frowned at Mr. Hawkins as recognition ignited. She marched up to the gentleman and looked just about ready to lay violent hands on him. Clarke wasn't convinced she would not, so she quickly intervened, taking her friends hand in hers.

"Clarke, what is this... _man_ doing here?" asked Octavia in a dangerously quiet voice.

"I haven't the foggiest notion, I assure you," she replied, mostly telling the truth.

Hawkins glanced between them, his eyes landing on Octavia's engagement ring. "I've come to ask for your hand, Miss Griffin," he said, catching her eye. He smirked at their stunned expressions. "For the upcoming masquerade ball. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me? Your friend of course is welcome to join us."

Neither girl spoke for a time and then Octavia turned on Clarke. "If you accept this preposterous invitation, I will never speak to you again! He hurt-"

"Octavia, hold your tongue!" Clarke hissed, pulling her further away from Hawkins and Kane, the latter of which was eyeing them suspiciously, that is to say, _more_ suspiciously than usual.

"Clarke, he-"

"Gave Lincoln the purse from the fight," she interjected in hushed tones.

"He what?" Octavia said, dumbfounded, staring over at Hawkins. "He couldn't have."

"I assure you he did, my dear friend. Did you not think it strange that Mr. Sterling asked for your hand so soon after the fight that he _lost_?"

Octavia seemed at war with herself for several more interminable seconds and then collapsed onto the nearest chair.

Clarke turned back to Hawkins to find he was now very closely studying the painting of the pirate that bared an uncanny resemblance to himself. "Excellent craftsmanship," he noted, apparently oblivious to all of their carryings on. "Clean, definite strokes, yet full of passion and life. Reminds me of some of the greats in the Louvre. The detail in this pirates face is exquisite." He looked at her as he said, "One would almost think you knew him."

Even more mortified than before, she flushed in embarrassment and pleasure (no man besides her father had ever praised her work before). "You've been to the Louvre?"

Turning to face her, he stood tall from his stooped posture, hands still behind his back. He nodded. "Far more artwork than I was imagining. I spent close to a week there and still didn't manage to enjoy every piece to my hearts content."

Clarke had always wanted to visit the famous museum, but had never had the capacity to travel to the City of Light.

"Where else have you been?"

He smirked and said, "I'll tell you all about my travels, Miss Griffin...at the ball."

* * *

 ***rich man, but used in a not so nice way**

 **One guess who's gonna make an appearance at the ball...hint: it starts with L and ends in exa. ;D**

 **And yeah, they did actually have these fisticuff things.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well that was a clusterfuck if I ever saw one. I'm glad to see the fandom not letting jdumbass's shitty direction dictate whether or not we take future enjoyment out of this pastime. These characters are just as much ours as they are theirs. Just because they can't be happy on the show, doesn't mean they can't be happy here. Death is not the end because fiction is eternal.**

 **Anyway, I hope you guys are doing a little better now. :)  
**

* * *

The masquerade ball was in a weeks time. Mr. Hawkins promised to provide Clarke with an outfit should she require it. At first Clarke decided to refuse the generous offer, but then Octavia convinced her to accept. According to Octavia, one should never refuse gifts from handsome suitors, lest the refusal turn them off of the courtship. Besides, neither of them owned gowns fit for the type of ball they were going to be attending. Unless her friend managed to procure costumes in the same dubious way she had the men's clothing, they needed to take him up on his offer or look the fool in front of the cities most prestigious ilk. Octavia wasn't thrilled about attending a ball Mr. Hawkins had invited her to, but she _was_ thrilled about the prospect of attending. She had never been to a ball before, neither had Lincoln, and Octavia was ecstatic about sharing many a dance with her betrothed. Clarke wondered if either of them actually knew _how_ to dance, but she did not voice these concerns, confident the couple would practice beforehand if needs be, while chaperoned of course.

Meanwhile, Clarke spent hour upon hour sketching wedding dresses for her friend. She was never quite satisfied in the result. It was either too plain or too elaborate. Clarke had yet to ascertain that perfect blend of style and elegance. Octavia had made her laugh again after Wells' death, the least she could do was make her a dress fit for a queen. The sentiment was more in thought than practice. Though she and Monroe would be making the wedding dress free of gratuity, Octavia insisted on paying for the materials herself, or at least, with some of her brothers funds.

Sighing, she put her sketch book aside and stretched out the stiffness from her immobile limbs. She had been sitting for far too long today and decided a short five mile walk was in order. Her mother, who had likewise been engaged in reading, agreed to accompany her. As she donned her walking boots, Mr. Hawkins was announced at the front door. Her father was busy in his workshop, and her mother had gone upstairs to retrieve her hat, so she went over to greet him. Her mother returned shortly thereafter.

After their pleasantries were over he said, "I see you were about to take a stroll. I don't want to keep you from your afternoon constitutional, so I'll be brief." He looked specifically at her. "Are you prepared for the ball, Miss Griffin, or do you require me to aid you?"

"I believe Miss Blake and I do indeed require your services."

"Very well. I will see to it that you have the finest costumes present." He smiled. "Well, the host, Countess Woods, may exceed yours."

That's right, Clarke knew nothing about this woman, except for the idle gossip she had heard over the years from her mother's friends, and the terrible tragedy that had befallen her family. Countess Woods was from an incredibly affluent lineage, and her current wealth was astronomical, and far more than any one single person should lay claim to. Bachelors far and wide had attempted to secure her favour, but so far none had prevailed. As far as anyone knew, she had never even allowed a single one to _court_ her. When Clarke happened to think of her, (which was rare since she had never even laid eyes on her) she pictured a tall, condescending woman adorned in luxurious silks, exotic furs, and fantastical gems the size of her fists. Generally the countess was riding on an elephant too. Clarke hardly thought she was the sort of person she would want to associate with, but that was likely unavoidable if she was the host of the ball.

Mr. Hawkins looked to her mother. "Madam, if you and your husband would also like to join our party, just say the word and I will have additional costumes made should you also require them."

Her mother mulled that over for a bit, before looking at Clarke. "Yes, I do believe, that would be agreeable. I will have to consult with Mr. Griffin first."

Clarke stifled the face she was about to make, not wanting her parents chaperoning her at the prestigious event. Mr. Hawkins noticed her displeasure all the same.

"If I were a mother, I would not want my only daughter to go off with a stranger."

"Perhaps we should rectify that issue, Mr. Hawkins," said her mother, giving him a shrewd look. "Perhaps you should accompany us on our walk so that we may get to know one another better?"

"It would be my pleasure to alleviate any and all concerns you may have about me." He gestured towards the door. "Shall we?"

What was supposed to be a pleasant afternoon stroll quickly became anything but. Her mother was relentless in her interrogation of Mr. Hawkins, though she did it with the utmost decorum and poise, as any proper lady would. Clarke would never admit it, but she was glad for this lengthy discourse. After Mr. Collins' deplorable behaviour, she too was suspicious of charming gentlemen, and Mr. Hawkins was perhaps even more agreeable than he. Certainly he appeared to be wealthier which was cause for concern on its own. Why would a well-to-do gentleman set his sights on someone from the middle class? Surely he could find many ladies from his own station that would take an interest? The fact that Mr. Hawkins was an older bachelor was also cause for concern. Why was it that he had not settled down and started a family yet? Granted her own father was on the more distinguished side before he produced his first and only offspring (that lived at any rate), but that was due to his constant devotion to his work and the betterment of mankind. What had occupied Mr. Hawkins time?

Among other things, Clarke learned he was the son of an American business tycoon and accordingly had spent most of his life overseas. As a child, his parents attempted to groom him into a respectable businessman, but he had been resistant and unwilling to take up his fathers mantle. This alone caused tension and idle threats of disinheritance. He went to Columbia College* in New York City for some years studying law but never actually graduated. There was an unfortunate incident that prevented him from doing so, but he would not elaborate on the particulars besides the fact that he had finally been disinherited because of it. Naturally, her curiousity was peeked. It was unusual for a man to be so forthcoming with his shortcomings, and show himself in an unfavourable light.

"I would tell you everything if I could, Mrs. Griffin," he added with a sigh, "but unfortunately it is not only _my_ honour in question. The incident is of a sensitive nature and I'm afraid I would have to divulge things about another family I'm not at liberty to discuss."

Her mothers disapproval was painfully evident as she said, "I see."

Which more or less meant, how convenient. Mr. Hawkins was not doing a very good job of ingratiating himself with her mother...or herself for that matter. To hint at an infamous secret and give nothing more away was highly suspect. Why allude to the incident at all?

"Tell me, Mr. Hawkins," said her mother, "if you never received your law degree _and_ were disinherited, how is that you have come to support yourself so well?"

He waited until after they had passed by a noisy street vendor to reply. "Thankfully I have other more understanding family. My cousin has been very kind to me these past few years."

"Is that how you were able to travel the world?" asked Clarke, glancing sideways at him as they strolled arm in arm.

He nodded. "Yes. In fact, it was my cousin's desire to get away from England that instigated our adventure. She had no one to travel with, so I offered my services."

"You must be very close to spend three years with her," said her mother. A man who could maintain amiable companionship with a woman for that length of time was a rare breed indeed. Though it was fairly uncommon for an unmarried man and woman to go on such a lengthy adventure, cousin or no.

"Ah, well, we didn't spend that entire time together. Periodically my cousin had other obligations she had to deal with here, so she would return home a few times a year."

"Is your cousin in England presently?" said Clarke. If there was anyone who would know the full story to Roan's disinheritance, it would be her...assuming she even existed.

"You'll be meeting her soon enough, Miss Griffin." Mr. Hawkins smirked. "My cousin is hosting the masquerade ball."

That stopped both of The Griffin women in their tracks. They looked between them and then back at Mr. Hawkins, who laughed boisterously, causing the flight of several pigeons. When he mastered himself, he patted Clarke's hand. "The countess is not nearly as intimidating as one might think. You'll be fine."

It seemed unlikely Mr. Hawkins would lie about such an esteemed connection, especially one that could be disproven in a weeks time, and yet, it was highly unbelievable all the same.

* * *

Neither of The Griffin women were quite sure what to make out of Mr. Hawkins tale and assertions. If not for the family connection to the countess, Clarke was certain her mother would have forbidden her from going to the ball with Mr. Hawkins, and from seeing him in future. Men with secret pasts were not the sort that she should be associating with. The fact that he divulged this information freely was of no consequence.

Two days before the ball, he called on them again, bearing their costumes. He brought his own tailor with to make the necessary adjustments. Clarke received the costume graciously and went upstairs to change. There were multiple layers to the dress which she laid out on her bed and just stared at. The inner most slip was of a finer material than she was accustomed to wearing, and surprisingly sheer. While the material was sheer, it was not so thin as to be see through or improper in any way. Nor was the cut inappropriate in the slightest. If anything the bosom was modest. Every part of her that was supposed to be covered was. Yet because of the lack of bulk, her natural curves were on display for all to see. And being able to distinguish the female form was considered scandalous and likely to make men lose all control over their faculties. More poppycock in Clarke's opinion.

Clarke personally loved the way she looked in just the slip but there was nary a chance she would be allowed to leave the house like this, let alone have the confidence to do so should she miraculously receive it. No, she would have to wear the monstrosity that accentuated her backside to a large degree, as was the custom for these types of parties, and women's fashion in general. It was not all atrocious. It was adorned in golden lace, similar to that of her hair. The most striking thing about the silk gown though was the blue hue that matched her eyes perfectly, and had been chosen with obvious attention to detail, the kind of detail an artist usually took note of. If nothing else, Mr. Hawkins had a keen eye, and was well suited to his name.

The nearly floor length dress fit remarkably well, though she supposed a few alterations were still in order. She pulled on the long white gloves just past her elbows, and finished the ensemble with the pièce de résistance, the mask. A snarling lioness looked back at her in her full length mirror, her own lips visible behind pointed fangs. The details in this too were exquisite, a true work of art. It was so lifelike, that for a second she frightened herself and gasped in surprise. She placed a hand to the protruding contours, touched the tips of the wooden teeth, and for a moment fantasized about what it would feel like to be such an intense, graceful killer; to prowl the land without fear; to have a den of cubs looking to her for guidance and safety. Clarke was fairly self possessed, but she was glad not to have the burden of leadership on her delicate shoulders. She pitied and admired all those throughout history that were thrust into such roles without their consent. For every one that succeeded, dozens fell.

All Hallows Eve was upon them, the first shared between Miss Griffin and Miss Blake, as well as their respective companions. What trees and foliage could be discerned within the city limits were ablaze with the colours of the setting sun. With a party of six, two carriages (ornately adorned) were required to transport them to the festivities near the centre of the city. The Woods family had owned this ballroom for over a hundred years and had hosted countless dances there. In the past three years however, precisely none had been had, which made those attending this particular event all the more esteemed and illustrious in the eyes of the populace.

Their carriage came to a halt and Mr. Hawkins swept out quickly to offer his assistance. His blue coattails flowed for a moment longer before stilling. His lion mask rested atop his head, giving him a slightly comical appearance. She held her own mask in her hand, determined not to undo the extraordinary efforts of Monre's diligent fingers. Her hair at least could not be faulted on this brisk night, though if they did not make it indoors before the rain came (as it did most days), that would not hold true.

"This way, my lady," he said, smiling.

She smiled back, placed her gloved hand in his bare one and descended the single step. Mr. Sterling likewise helped Octavia out of the carriage a moment later. The couple sported matching gorilla masks that were quite terrifying in their own right. Her parents forewent the use of their masks, her mother complaining of a difficulty in seeing. Having tried the mask on herself, Clarke knew this to be a falsehood. Likely her mother simply found the tiger to be too frightening, or otherwise vulgar. She certainly seemed to disapprove of the others masks, hers in particular, and could not understand why Mr. Hawkins had not chosen something more genteel, like pretty butterfly wings.

If the ballroom was half as ornate as the outside, she would soon be entering the most lavish building of her existence. Octavia quietly oohed and aahed as Clarke's parents joined them, and together the sextet walked up the well maintained stairs to the large open doors. An assortment of Jack-o-lanterns of exceptional skill could be perused at one's leisure, should they chose. Servants on either side nodded to them as they passed through and into a foyer with other masqueraders. Indeed, their masks were of the more typical, plain, unoffending sort. Mr. Hawkins clearly wished for their party to stand out amongst the other revelers.

Clarke slipped her mask on a few moments before they passed through a second set of doors and into the ballroom itself. It was so grand that several of her families house could fit within, and still have room to spare. A number of gilded chandeliers with a myriad of candles illuminated the vast expanse. Dozens upon dozens of circular tables with all manner of finery were set and ready for those that should require a rest, or those that had no desire to dance. Food and refreshments were available on either side of the dance floor, which was already occupied with a great number of colourful costumes, twirling and swirling to the large orchestra on the far side of the ballroom.

All this came second though as she set sights on the woman in red. Not far into the ballroom, the woman politely greeted those ahead of them. The dress was a stunning crimson, the colour of blood, its train dragging on the ground slightly. Its semi-transparent sleeves extended all the way to her wrists. Her hands were covered in black gloves which appeared to have bones on the back of them. Her hair was styled elegantly atop her head, a single braid resting across her shoulder and reaching just above her bosom. Save for the glimmering jewel on her forehead, she wore no jewelry. Beneath that lay her mask, bear claws...or perhaps tears, black as night. Mr. Hawkins notion of the countess not being intimidating seemed absolute folly.

Clarke was suddenly very anxious to meet the woman, and became all the more so when she heard her speak.

"Welcome, friends of Roan," she said softly, but in a voice still distinguishable above the music and general din.

Clarke stared wide eyed at the countess, at the same eyes and lips she had been drawing for the past month. The elusive woman gave them a cursory glance, each bowing or curtsying in turn. All except for Clarke, who stood stock still. Octavia elbowed her subtly but Clarke was immune.

"Where on earth did you locate such hideous masks, cousin?" said Countess Woods, shaking her head ever so slightly.

"A delightful little shop on-"

"It's you," Clarke said stupidly, much too loudly.

Everyone turned to look at her, and she flushed, exceedingly grateful for the lioness mask in place, disbelieving at her own stupidity. Thankfully the countess seemed unperturbed. Green eyes that were far more piercing than their last encounter (due to blackness of the mask and the extravagant lights) stared straight at her. The look was equal parts pleasant and unpleasant, all the more so because of the shiver it elicited.

"Good evening, Miss Griffin. Roan has told me much of you and your family. I hope that you will enjoy yourselves tonight."

"We are most grateful for the invitation, countess," said her mother, with another curtsy. "I am sure that we will enjoy ourselves immensely."

"The ballroom is glorious," added Octavia, the only other one brave enough to speak in such a noblewoman's presence. "I have never seen the like before."

This of course did not amount to much as Octavia had never _been_ in a ballroom before, but the countess did not know this and received the compliment graciously. "And I have never seen the like of your mask, Miss Blake. It's an incredibly convincing brute. Do try not to frighten the other dancers too much." She lowered her voice making it nearly impossible to hear. Clarke restrained herself from leaning in. "I fear some of them are getting on in years and we would do well to avoid future hospital visits...at least until Lord Rothenberg inevitably succumbs to the drink and falls on his face."

Mr. Hawkins laughed boisterously at that, in his easy, confident manner.

Someone behind them cleared their throat rudely. The countess simply smiled, looked at her cousins party and said, "Please go on ahead. I will attend you again as soon as my duties allow."

If not for Mr. Hawkins holding her arm and guiding her away, Clarke would have stood there staring at the mischievous sprite all evening long, afraid that if she looked away even for an instant, she would disappear into the ether again. A number of party-goers stared at them, some of them even going so far as to halt their movements. A couple of women even placed their hands to their chests at the spectacle of their masks.

Her companion also stared at her as they took their spot on the dance floor and began moving to the mid-tempo waltz, but not due to mask fascination. Unlike Octavia and Lincoln, they had not practiced beforehand, but Mr. Hawkins was quite skilled at this art form, as he seemed to be for most things, and consequently, Clarke found it a simple enough matter to keep in time and not step on anyone's feet even though it had been nearly a year since she danced with Wells. So consumed with thoughts of the mystery woman was she, that she barely even acknowledged the fact that Mr. Hawkins' warm hand was on her back, that they were _touching_ and standing fairly close.

"Are you going to let me in on the secret?" He squeezed the hand that was in his. "Miss Griffin?"

"Secret?" she replied slowly, not following. "What secret?"

"That was a somewhat unusual reaction to my cousin. Though admittedly, I have seen much worse. One young man fainted at her feet."

Clarke flushed once more behind the mask. She too had felt close to fainting. "The countess and I have met prior to now."

Mr. Hawkins perhaps looked surprised, she could not tell what expression lay behind the mask. No wonder ladies were so fond of their fans. "That is strange. I have mentioned you on more than one occasion. Were you not properly introduced then?"

"No, we were not."

She nearly admitted the particulars to their previous encounter when she noticed her mother and father dancing much too close for comfort. Like a hawk, her mother had her eyes on them, no doubt hoping for the least whiff of impropriety from Mr. Hawkins so that she would be wholly justified in bringing a close to their budding relationship. Indeed, this was unnecessary for Clarke was even more wary of the gentleman with two faces. She would not dare to give her heart to him until after she learned whether or not he was trustworthy. Certainly, he did not rat her out to her mother over the fight club incident, but there were still other past incidents to take into account. She doubted very much that the countess was the sort to divulge others secrets considering she seemed to have her fair share. Still, if given a suitable opportunity, she was determined to ask her tonight. There was no telling when next they would meet...if ever. The idea left her experiencing an odd sensation, one that she could not quite put her finger on.

"You promised to tell me of your travels at the ball," she said, changing the topic. "Here we are."

As Hawkins went on about the various exotic places he had gone to with his cousin, Clarke did her best to listen to him and not spend her time discreetly searching for the lady in red who was no longer posted near the ballroom entrance. Under normal circumstances such a task would be immensely simple. However, tonight there were a hundred, (perhaps as many as _three_ hundred) dancers twirling around, many of whom were in equally colourful costumes.

Being somewhat singular for his sex, Mr. Hawkins quickly took note of her distraction and lack of interest and stopped talking. Clarke finally caught sight of the countess, who was standing off to the side of the dance floor, conversing with a bald man in robes, or rather, he was talking _to_ her while she watched the dancers with her skeleton hands behind her back. Their eyes briefly met and Clarke felt a flutter within. When she next caught a glimpse through the masses of bodies, they were no longer present.

"Would you care for some refreshments, Miss Griffin?" Mr. Hawkins asked as the current waltz came to an end. "I've never had my cousin's ballroom punch before, but it's without a doubt as fine as anything else she's ever served me."

She licked her dry lips. "Yes, that would be delightful, Mr. Hawkins."

They moved through the crowd - some giving them unwarranted leeway - over to the nearest table full of decadence and extravagance. Mr. Hawkins picked up two silver cups embellished with dragons, and poured the punch with the ladle. He handed this to Clarke who swiftly removed her mask and promptly drained the entire thing in a very unladylike fashion. She was not even exerted from the dance she shared with her partner. Clarke was inexplicably thirsty.

Mr. Hawkins laughed at her behaviour and followed her lead, drinking the whole serving in one go. He released a sigh of pleasure and was about to give her more when she poured her own drink and sipped at that in a more delicate, refined manner.

After a few quiet moments he said, "You don't seem to be enjoying yourself, Miss Griffin. Are you all right?"

"I could do with some air. It's a bit warm in here."

"Yes, you do appear to be a little flushed."

He offered her his arm and led her a ways until they reached the far side of the ballroom, near the orchestra itself. Mr. Hawkins pushed through the glass doors and out onto a veranda. The garden was lacking in life and was a bit gloomy, which was only accentuated by the beginnings of the storm. They stood in silence for a time, the gusts of wind somewhat muting the sounds of music and gaiety seeping through.

"Do you feel better?"

"Much. Thank you."

"I get the impression you're not used to these sorts of functions. They _are_ fairly involved. I remember this one time I was so overwhelmed by all the goings on that I actually became sick all over my mothers gown. She nearly beat me right then and there."

Clarke looked at him to see if he was being serious. It was impossible to tell. "And how old were you, Mr. Hawkins?"

He shrugged and grinned, "Six."

She rolled her eyes. "That hardly counts then."

"Still," he persisted, with genuine concern in his eyes, "if you're uncomfortable at all, we can always leave. I won't be offended and neither will my cousin."

The mention of the countess reminded Clarke of her goal. She couldn't leave just yet.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Hawkins, but thank you for the offer. I shall endeavour to do as our host bid."

"Very well," he said with a nod.

As soon as they re-entered the ballroom, they were accosted by her parents (her mother in particular) who took Clarke aside and scolded her for going off alone with her suitor.

To which she replied, "If you are here, mother, who is chaperoning Miss Blake and her fiance?"

Her mother made a sour face at the deflection but conceded her point and left her father behind as she went in search of her daughters disobedient friend. The men then proceeded to compliment each other on their dancing prowess which then somehow devolved into a lecture about solar cells, one she had heard many a time. Mr. Hawkins seemed genuinely intrigued by the concept and asked all manner of questions. While they were otherwise engaged, Clarke took the opportunity to steal away in search of her elusive target.

She found her once again watching the dancers with the monk talking to her. Clarke knew she should not eavesdrop on their conversation, but she could not help herself and hid behind a pillar swathed in black cloth.

"...stand around in such a manner."

"I may have agreed to this ridiculous celebration, Titus, but that does not mean I shall dance myself."

The monk bristled at the comment. "Ridiculous celebration indeed! It has only been your families tradition for the past fifty years! A tradition _you_ broke the moment you left your duties behind with that black sheep and-"

The countess flashed him a withering glare. A lesser man would have turned to stone. "Enough, Titus. I will speak of this no more. Begone."

He did as he was bade, albeit, gracelessly. A few tense moments passed and then, "You may come out of hiding now, Miss Griffin."

Apparently she was quite atrocious at the sport. Heart pounding, she moved around the pillar and into Countess Woods direct line of sight. Her fingers were now tapping softly on one of the circular table tops.

"How may I be of service?" the countess asked in a much softer voice, gaze scanning her exposed face quickly, before resting back on her eyes.

Gripping the lioness mask tightly between both hands, she took a step closer. "I'm sorry to bother you countess, it's just that I'm-"

"Confused by my prior actions?"

She nodded.

"As you have just witnessed, I do not often have council over my own thoughts. Titus has been with my family since before I was born, so too was his father before him, and so on and so on. Should I have told you who I was and you had then spread word of my unusual nocturnal habits around the city-"

"I would not have done that," she interjected.

The countess stopped tapping her fingers and brought them before her person. "Needless to say, among others, my advisor would not have approved of my behaving in a manner not befitting my station. The fewer lectures I receive, the better. A sentiment I suspect you understand quite well."

"Indeed I do," she said, taking a few steps nearer. "In fact, I very recently received one from my mother when I went off with your cousin and was unchaperoned for some minutes."

"She need not worry on that score. Roan is one of the most honourable men I have ever known, notwithstanding my own excellent father."

She stepped even closer so that they were almost within arms reach. "And I do believe you are correct in your assessment, countess...however, I must ask..." she swallowed and licked her lips, the countesses eyes flickering down briefly, "do you know the details concerning your cousin's college mishap?"

The countess raised an eyebrow at the impertinent question. "Yes, Miss Griffin, I am well aware of them. However, it is not my place to inform you of the particulars. I have no doubt Roan will tell you when you have been deemed trustworthy." The countess gave her an especially pointed look as if to say, you are failing miserably. Clarke fidgeted, feeling foolish like she often did in the countesses presence. "Rest assured that Roan was no more in the wrong than you or I."

If that were so, why was he disinherited?

A drunken man in a devil's mask caught her attention some distance beyond the countess. He was harassing Mr. Hawkins who had been attempting to make his way over to her, her entire party in tow. Clarke and the countess moved closer to the confrontation and the growing number of spectators.

"...fight me again!" the man slurred. "I never go down that easily, sir! You must have cheated!" He jabbed Mr. Hawkins in the chest. "Damn Yanks are all the same! Lousy cheats!"

"Get some air, Lord Rothenberg," replied Mr. Hawkins with forced composure, "you are drunk and witless."

"You dare to insult me! _Me_! Do you know who I am, sir!" Rothenberg explained, poking Mr. Hawkins once more. "I should have your head for that!"

Lord Rothenberg staggered around a bit and squinted over in her direction. "I say! You seem oddly familiar, miss!" He came right up to her and grabbed her by the arms so tightly she was likely to receive bruises. Clarke nearly became intoxicated from the odious vapours pouring forth. "Have we not met before?"

"Unhand Miss Griffin at once," demanded Mr. Hawkins, clearly losing the last of his restraint.

"I would do as he says, Lord Rothenberg," came the dark tones just behind her. "You embarrass yourself and your entire namesake with this unseemly display."

The orchestra had completely ceased it's melodious tune by this juncture and was deathly quiet.

Lord Rothenberg finally released her, looking terrified by his considerable faux pas.

"Countess," he gasped, as if he had just realized she was there and this were her party.

The Countess stood beside Clarke and made note of the ugly red marks on her arms, the paleness of her skin perhaps giving it an even worse appearance. The countess looked livid, even behind the mask. When she next spoke however, she was exceptionally calm.

"I think it best you leave now before you do something you really regret." She inclined her head in the direction of two servants who hurried over to escort the inebriated man away from the festivities. "My sincerest apologies, Miss Griffin," added the countess distractedly. "I do hope you will still be able to enjoy yourself."

"I believe I shall, countess."

She gave her a curt, tight lipped nod and turned on her heel, heading in the direction Lord Rothenberg had been taken. Clarke desperately wanted to see what was going to happen behind closed doors, but the music began anew and she was swept up by Octavia and other concerned members of her group and eventually into another dance.

* * *

 ***Formerly King's College**

 **I'm being a bit petty, I know. But I find it funny how I literally just swapped out Wallace for Jdumbass...that was the only alteration I made after the show ended. I guess they're basically the same person...figures. Anyway, hope you found it a little funny too.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Again, I swear this first bit was written pre-307 and I only swapped out the name...**

* * *

Four days after the ball, Clarke received a package. This was a fairly rare occasion, so despite her mother's protests, she ran upstairs in an effort for privacy. The wrapping was superb and she admired this for some moments before removing the envelope from beneath the red ribbon. Her name was etched in thin slanting handwriting. She turned it over and observed the wax seal depicting a familiar looking dragon. Slicing through with her a hairpin, Clarke unfolded the note within and began to read.

 _Dear Miss Griffin,_

 _You must allow me to once again apologize for the fright and harm that befell you at the ball. I am most grieved by the disgusting occurrence. Lord Rothenberg shall never set foot in my ballroom - or any other establishment of my families - again._

That had a rather ominous ring to it but Clarke wasn't prone to flights of fancy like Octavia, and hardly believed Countess Woods capable of physically harming Lord Rothenberg. Berating and intimidating him, yes, but actually harming, or _killing_ him, no. After all, she could hardly go around maiming or killing everyone whom she despised, even if she was exceedingly rich. Sooner or later someone would notice if noblemen and women were vanishing without a trace. Still, the package was fairly large and heavy and part of her expected to find Lord Rothenberg's head within. However, her ridiculous fears were somewhat alleviated by the final line.

 _I hope you are well, and that you will accept and make great use of this small token of repentance._

 _Sincerely, Alexandria_

Clarke was a little taken aback by the use of her Christian name, and nothing more. Even if it was only in a letter, it was somewhat peculiar considering they were still mostly strangers and she was a highborn. At any rate, Clarke placed the note aside and removed the lid from the box. Nestled inside was another slightly smaller box, this one wooden and highly varnished. She took this out and undid the clasp on the front. Holding her breath, she opened the box to find no severed head. Instead there were a variety of art supplies. These ranged from charcoal to paintbrushes, to many different types and colours of paint, to a couple of art history books. Everything was of superb quality and much nicer than anything she currently owned. Perhaps a small token to the countess, not so for Clarke. It was far too much compensation for such a trifling affair, but she was no fool and not about to return the items to the countess, gravely offending her.

She picked up a small jar of blood red paint and smiled to herself. She knew precisely the way to finally thank the countess for her assistance that night.

* * *

Clarke was well into the fierce depiction when Mr. Hawkins called. While he seemed amused, she was somewhat peeved at having her exploits interrupted once again.

"I would give you my hand, Mr. Hawkins, but they are quite the fright at the moment." Arcing a brow, "How is it that you are always calling on me as I pursue my artwork?"

He picked up one of the brand new paintbrushes and ran his finger along the horsehair tip. "Have you considered that you are often employed in such a manner?"

Clarke conceded his point with a look, knowing she frequently forwent her other studies until the last moment - namely German lessons - in favour of her one burning passion. It was not mere coincidence that the majority of this passion had been directed towards the countess as of late. She still had no idea who this woman truly was, and it was this lack of understanding that drove her hand ever onward, as if the understanding would come should she draw her enough times.

Mr. Hawkins moved closer to examine the painting of his cousin more readily. The countesses face had only been roughly sketched in for future reference. The outfit was the main focus of the painting at this juncture. Only an imbecile would not recognize who was being portrayed, and Mr. Hawkins was far from being one.

He appraised it quietly for some time and then glanced in her direction. "My cousin will no doubt be flattered by the finished product should you show it to her. Though I must warn you, Miss Griffin, she doesn't readily accept presents...or gratitude."

Clarke was well aware of this irritating and improper behaviour. "Do you believe she will have it returned if I send it off?"

Mr. Hawkins shrugged. "It's hard to fathom my cousin's motivations sometimes. If she does return it, I wouldn't take it personally."

She was not quite sure how that made sense but didn't see the point in acknowledging this discrepancy.

"At any rate," he continued, changing topics, "I came here today to see if you might like to attend the opera with me this evening? Your parents would of course accompany you," he added with a smirk and a twinkle in his eye. "We can't have you acting unladylike again."

With considerable restraint she held back the eye roll, also smirking. "Yes, that would be quite the travesty should history repeat itself. And yes, I accept your invitation, Mr. Hawkins. Where shall we be dining beforehand?"

"I've recently discovered a charming place not far from the opera house. Supposedly they have exquisite Blanquette de Veau." Conspiratorially, "We'll have to be the judge of that."

"Sounds wonderful," she said, struggling to remember what that was exactly. Her mastery of the French language was not much better than that of her German.

"Well then," he said clapping his hands together once, "I'll be calling on you again in four hours time. With any luck you won't be elbow deep in paint."

In a fit of childishness, she flicked some paint in his direction which he dodged with easy grace, laughing. "Where are your manners, Miss Griffin? Utterly shameful conduct," he grinned before hightailing it out of there.

She chuckled to herself softly and then got back to work.

* * *

They decided that in fact, the Blanquette de Veau was not quite as advertised and as such an extra serving of wine was had to wash the aftertaste away. As usual, her father seemed much more infatuated with Mr. Hawkins than she herself was. Clarke was amused by her mother's obvious irritation at being ignored, and the men going on and on about business and solar cells once more. She wondered what it would be like to be alone with Mr. Hawkins again, if she would feel any impetuous desires to touch or, even more scandalous still, _kiss_ him. Certainly the impulse never crossed her mind at the ball, but she chalked that up to being thrown off by the countesses appearance. And all things considered, she _did_ have some respect for (herself and) proper decorum, and wouldn't just throw herself at the first man who paid her the least bit of attention.

Clarke had only been in the opera house on a handful of occasions throughout her eighteen years of existence, mostly accompanying her mother when her father had no desire to go, or was otherwise preoccupied with his work. She had dressed for the occasion in considerable less finery than that of the ball, but even so, she was turning heads and eliciting hushed conversations. Or perhaps it was the _company_ she was keeping that was accomplishing this. She supposed in the upper echelon's of society, people were more cognizant of who was related to whom, likely due to their complete and utter lack of occupation. The fact that they were seated in the countesses private box (located ideally up above and directly over the stage) was also cause for chatter.

"Does the countess often enjoy the pleasure of music?" she asked him while they waited for the curtain to rise.

"I don't believe so, no."

The thought made her irrationally sad. It was one of her own greatest pleasures in life, second only to that of art.

"Oh, that's a pity," said her mother, beside her, "if I had such a view, I would come here every night."

"Why does she own a box then- oh, yes, of course. This is her families box," Clarke continued on stupidly. "Or rather was..."

"Yes," said Mr. Hawkins, somewhat tight-lipped. "Like any other respectable family, the Woods family enjoyed their weekly opera visit."

"Terrible tragedy, that," added her father. "Must have been quite the blow. Hardly surprising she needed some time away from all this."

"Yes, well, the countess is a remarkable young woman," said Mr. Hawkins, clearly uncomfortable with the direction this discourse had taken. Clarke cursed herself for being as tactless as her father. "But she is also only human."

An awkward silence descended upon them until the curtain blessedly rose.

* * *

The classic opera, Rigoletto, helped to alleviate the previous pall, and Clarke found herself becoming increasingly immersed in the drama unfolding before her eyes. The story centred around the Duke of Mantua, who was quite the cad, and reminded her of Mr. Collins; Rigoletto, a deformed, hunchbacked jester; and his daughter, Gilda, who was reported to be exceedingly desirable, though the singer herself was only of average beauty. After the jester successfully encourages the duke to seduce one of the courtier's daughters, a curse is placed on both men. Predictably, this caused Gilda to fall in love with the duke. The conclusion saw Gilda's violent death as she prevented her father's assassin from killing the one she couldn't help but to love even though she knew him to be a licentious miscreant.

Considering the story was based off of a play by Victor Hugo, the same man who created the hunchback of Notre-Dame, Clarke wasn't at all surprised by the way it ended. Melodrama at its finest. It rather annoyed Clarke that the women often seemed to get the short straw in these types of affairs while the men walked away unscathed and continued on with their despicable habits.

The quartet proceeded to have animated discourse on the poor treatment of women in the entertainment industry, her suitor purposely playing devil's advocate to get a further rise out of her. Her mother eventually interceded before the hot tempered daughter did something she lived to regret and the party sat in silence once more as the carriage continued on its meandering way back home.

Mr. Hawkins eventually broke the spell by adding, "If you ever have the chance, Miss Griffin, I suggest you bring this topic up with my cousin. She is rather like-minded to yourself." He smirked in that charming, but currently irritating manner, and finished, "With any luck you will even get her to show you the novel she has been writing these past few months."

"She's writing a novel?" queried Clarke in some wonder. The countess did not seem like the sort to engage in such frivolous pursuits. Then again, Clarke really did not know anything about her save for what others had said.

Mr. Hawkins nodded. "Besides portraying a female protagonist, I have no idea what it is about. Perhaps you can persuade her to have a look someday."

The carriage came to a stop outside of their gate and Mr. Hawkins politely took his leave with the merest of kisses to her hand. All in all it had been an interesting evening, not at all dull and tedious like she was accustomed to. Clarke was definitely coming to appreciate Mr. Hawkins more modern sensibilities about certain issues...however, he was still far from truly understanding the depths of her plight, if only because he was a man. Those that were poor _and_ women, had it worse still.

Speaking of...Octavia was waiting just inside for their return. She had clearly been in recent distress. Clarke escorted her upstairs to her bedroom where they could discuss what was bothering her in private, without unwanted interjections from her mother.

Once more Octavia was hysterical. It took quite some doing to bring her back down to a comprehensive level. When she had calmed down somewhat, Clarke sat them on her bed and took her hands while her friend informed her of the particulars.

"My brother called on me tonight. He received word of my engagement to Mr. Sterling and requested temporary leave from his station. He was enraged that I would enter into this union without first informing him of my intent. Bellamy refused to give me his blessing and forbade me from seeing Lincoln again. I told him I would marry him regardless and stormed out of the apartment and came here. Do you think I might possibly stay here for awhile, Clarke? Do you think your parents might take pity on me? I have nowhere else to go and I refuse to live under the same roof as that tyrant."

Clarke wasn't exactly shocked by this turn of events, even if Mr. Sterling now had a comfortable sum to support them for some years. It sounded like Mr. Blake had always assumed Octavia's education would cause her to wed someone quite rich and who would never have need of financial aid. For that single, yet fairly important reason, he disapproved with such vehemence. Clarke did not like to see her friend in such distress and planned on giving him a piece of her mind...tomorrow. For now she would comfort her friend as best she could.

"You will stay in my room tonight," she said, squeezing Octavia's hands. "We shall be bosom sisters until this ordeal has been sorted out."

"Do you truly think that possible, Clarke?" whispered Octavia, unshed tears clinging to her eyes.

"I do my dearest friend, I do. Now come," she continued, laying her on the bed, "and get some rest."

Octavia snuggled into her embrace, and though Clarke was fairly uncomfortable in her corset, she dare not attempt to rectify the situation until her friend was well on her way to dream land.

* * *

Despite often being up at all hours of the night, Octavia was an annoyingly early riser. And far from being the considerate type, she insisted that everyone rise with her. Or at least Clarke. Octavia shook her shoulders and bounced on the bed until Clarke wanted to throttle her.

"Get up sleepy head!" she exclaimed once more, hitting her with her spare goose down pillow. "The sun is shining this fine November morning! We must not let this opportunity go to waste! The snow will soon be here! A horse ride would be-"

Clarke glared at her grumpily. "Oh no, no more horse rides for you. And how are you so cheerful after last nights debacle?"

She wanted to chastise herself for such unfeeling behaviour but it was unnecessary as Octavia's smile never once faltered. "I will not let my brother's churlishness dictate my mood for the day!" She hit Clarke with the pillow again. "So arise fair maiden and let not another moment go to waste!"

Clarke grumbled but forced herself to get up lest her senses be further assailed.

* * *

Having Octavia as a house guest was wonderful in theory (she had never had a sister before) but in practice it only served to vex her more and more each day. Clarke could tell her mother was nearing the end of her rope and would soon issue the order for Miss Blake's dismissal, so Clarke finally took it upon herself to call on Mr. Blake, who had stubbornly kept his distance. Mr. Kane accompanied her in this endeavour.

Octavia's governess had apparently been dismissed, so the door was opened by Mr. Blake. Her friend had once shown a picture of the man, but it had been a rather outdated one from his teen years. The man before her was in his mid twenties, neither slight of build nor bulky, hair mussed and unseemly, and ironically similarly dressed to that of Lincoln, that is to say, he wore no suit. His red military coat could be seen just behind him, slung over the back of a chair.

Mr. Blake stared at her for a long moment and then said, "Miss Griffin."

"How did you know?"

"My sister writes of little else in her letters." He became sour. "Else wise I would have learned of her infatuation sooner."

If that were true, the governess had fallen down on the job in yet _another_ way, and it was no wonder she may have been removed from her employ.

"I know why you're here, miss, but it was in futility. I will not change my mind in this matter. Mr. Sterling is not a fit husband. My sister will come to see that in due time."

Before Clarke could tell him off, he continued on, shaking his head, "I blame myself of course for being gone nigh on half a year. She would never have entered into such an unfortunate match if someone more sensible had been around to guide her."

Despite his self deprecating words, Mr. Blake glared at _her_ in obvious reproach, and Clarke had to clench her hands to her side lest she assault yet another 'gentleman' this year.

"Mr. Blake, I believe if you would only speak to your sister and Mr. Sterling, you would see that they are in fact quite well suited to one another, and as such, your cause for alarm is unwarranted. Granted he is not as wealthy as some but-"

"And there's the rub, Miss Griffin. I have done everything in my power, time and time again to see she has the best chance at a fruitful union. I have given up my own happiness so that she may have reason to smile everyday. And how does she repay me? Engaged to a _stable boy_? I think not."

"I assure you, Mr. Blake, Mr. Sterling is far more than a mere stable boy. He has many admirable qualities and your sister loves him very much."

Mr. Blake scoffed at that, infuriating her. Clarke got into his personal space, looking murderous. The man looked a little uncertain but otherwise did not back down. "I for one believe marrying for love is far more important than marrying for money. Only the select few are blessed with both options. Octavia _will_ marry Mr. Sterling whether you give your blessing or not. I suggest you bury the hatchet and make amends before she's out of your life forever." Clarke stepped back, softening slightly. "I understand this is not what you envisioned for her, but it is what she desires. You should respect her decision and let her live her life so that you may finally live yours."

* * *

The wedding proceeded without a hitch eight days later for which The Griffin's were quite glad. After several lengthy conversations with Mr. Sterling, Mr. Blake got over his grievances against him, to which Octavia was thrilled. She was further thrilled when he walked her down the aisle in full regimental attire, sabre included. The dress Clarke designed and Monroe brought to life was just as she had pictured it to be. Simple, yet not understated. No ridiculous backside or train for yards and yards of fabric. Just beaded lace across the front and back torso, and slightly puffed up sleeves, reminiscent of Octavia's own slight egomania. Finally, her face was covered in a traditional veil, scorning off evil spirits or whatever the reason was supposed to be.

Mr. Sterling and his two groomsmen were dressed dashingly, though she suspected they had rented their tuxedos and top hats for the special occasion, and really, Clarke couldn't fault them for that. It was rather absurd to pay large sums of money for a finely tailored tuxedo one would never wear again. The best man was Mr. Nyko Florence, a large bearded fellow that seemed rather out of place. According to Octavia he was a butcher and Lincoln's childhood friend. Her own suitor, Mr. Hawkins, was the second member of this party, no doubt due to his generous donation after the fight club.

She herself stood off to the side of Octavia, feeling distinctly awkward being the only bridesmaid, and therefore maid of honour. There was apparently no one else Octavia deemed worthy to share in this honour, which was flattering she supposed, but also somewhat sad.

Clarke never saw two people happier than the moments after they were pronounced husband and wife by the pastor. Her heart was full with joy and affection for her friends good fortune in finding someone she had little doubt would be her faithful servant until death parted them. Now was not the time to ruminate on such morbid things so she quickly shook it off, hugged and congratulated her best friend in all the world and cheered the newlyweds on with everyone else as they ascended into the garishly decorated carriage. Octavia insisted on this tradition, and Clarke bowed to her wishes.

* * *

The reception was held shortly thereafter in a quaint little venue not far from the church. The attendees pitched in to supply the food and drink for this part of the festivities, something akin to a potluck. Clarke and others gave short, heartfelt toasts over raised glasses of wine, and then the Sterlings shared their first dance together as man and wife. Most joined in during the next waltz. Over the course of the evening Clarke danced with a number of gentlemen. Mr. Hawkins first; then Mr. Blake, who thanked her once more for knocking some sense into him; her father next, who not so subtly hinted that it may be Clarke's turn to take the veil next; and finally Mr. Sterling himself, who also thanked Clarke for everything he had done for them. She did not make him promise to take good care of Octavia, she already felt it in her bones that he would.

Clarke and Octavia shared a tearful goodbye, and then her husband helped her into the carriage and towards their honeymoon destination outside of the city. They would be spending a few days at a highly recommended inn that offered a fine selection of horses to ride. Granted the weather was fairly chilly now and some snow even littered the ground, but Clarke knew something as trivial as that could never prevent her friend from reveling in the freedom of such a pursuit. She supposed Octavia would not wear her wedding dress while riding, but Clarke could not be certain.

Once the carriage was out of sight, she suddenly felt empty and forlorn, like a piece of herself had just been ripped straight out of her chest. Such intense feelings and she had only known the woman for a short while! It was somewhat unnerving to Clarke just how attached she had grown to the other woman. She didn't think she could bear losing another best friend and prayed with all her might that no ill or harm should strike Octavia down.

Perhaps it was this unsettling feeling that caused Clarke to take Mr. Hawkins into the alleyway and kiss him on the cheek. He raised an eyebrow at the unusual behaviour.

"Miss Griffin?" he said questioning.

Rather than explain herself she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips. She wasn't quite sure what to expect. His lips were cold but soft and very pliant. Octavia had said the experience was one of the highlights of her life. While Clarke enjoyed the few seconds that they remained lip-locked, she wasn't overcome with emotion or lust. Perhaps Octavia had exaggerated how kissing someone was supposed to feel – which was highly plausible – or perhaps Clarke was simply not in the right mindset to truly enjoy it.

When she pulled back, he placed a hand to the side of her face and just stared at her. "Are you all right, Miss Griffin?"

She nodded, embracing him, and he held her for a time. She felt safe and secure in his arms and like she could become accustomed to this new level of intimacy between them. "Please, Roan," she said boldly, "call me, Clarke."

"As you wish," he replied.

Call it woman's intuition, but he seemed slightly off himself and she did not believe it was due to the kiss. "Is everything all right, Roan?"

After a few moments of silence, "I was wondering, mi- Clarke," he paused after saying her Christian name out loud for the first time (in her presence anyway) before continuing, "would you have any interest in coming to the country for the holidays?"

She moved out of the shelter of his arms and blinked at him in confusion. "Christmas is not yet a month away."

He elaborated further. "Yes, but it will take me that long to convince my cousin to allow The Griffin's presence at her family estate."

"Oh, I would not want to impose on the countesses hospitality should she not wish to-"

"My cousin has need of company this holiday season," he interrupted firmly, yet not unkindly. "It will be the first she will have there since losing her family to that dreadful disease. She may not _want_ the company, but she _needs_ it. I believe some gayness and frivolity will do her heart some much needed good."

"Did she not take any enjoyment from her extended leave?" she asked cautiously, completely unprepared for the ensuing revelation.

Roan sighed. "I doubt she would appreciate my telling you this but I trust you to keep this between us." Clarke nodded and he proceeded, "At first she attempted to drown her sorrows in copious amounts of alcohol, then she took to starting fights with men twice her size, and finally she simply locked her door and lay there staring at the ceiling. She scarcely ate. It took me many months just to get her to come out and go for a stroll. Little by little she seemed to take an interest in her surroundings and by the end of that first year we began traveling in earnest, her thirst for adventure sparked anew." He sighed again. "However, the cycle invariably repeated itself as the anniversaries of their deaths approached. I fear she is headed towards her most closed off self once more. Titus and I are at a loss as to how to help her permanently leave the sadness behind."

Perhaps it was her artistic side, but knowing that a beautiful woman like the countess was in such pain seemed even worse than if she were plain.

"After such trauma as she has endured, there may not be a way."

Roan nodded, looking forlorn. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "That does not mean we will not try."

He gave her a sad, grateful smile, squeezed her hands and quipped, "And now we really must be getting back before your mother sets the hounds on me."

Clarke laughed at his inexhaustible propensity for cheer and took his arm.

* * *

 **WHAT'S IN THE BOX?!**

 **Poor Lexa, she always gets the raw deal.**

 **Yes, Roan, she needs some gayness in her life. Lol.**


	5. Chapter 5

The view from the rumbling carriage was stunning. Blankets of crisp virgin snow; shimmering crystals like chandeliers above and beside and all around; smooth glass stretching onwards, begging to be glided upon; and of course, the mansion itself. Whereas the ballroom was of a more exuberant richness, the mansion was much more understated, possessing a quieter type of beauty, not unlike its owner.

They partially circled around a silent fountain, massive icicles dangling from a dragon's spread wings. A knight held a slanting shield to protect against the onslaught of flame in the form of water that would undoubtedly spew from the upturned, fearsome jaws in warmer weather. An interesting spectacle to be sure and one she was somewhat disappointed not to be able to witness.

Continuing on past rows of dead hedges, the mansion loomed large and bright. Clarke was looking forward to exploring its halls as well as the estate grounds this holiday season. What secrets might they hold? What wonders?

A series of cleared stairs ascended to the main doors. Off to the side of these were guarded alcoves, and standing in one of them with their hands on the rail was the countess. Upon their arrival, she moved to stand at the head of the stairs, hands behind her back, all but discouraging any formal greetings. Clarke had the distinct impression that the countess did not like being touched and Clarke would respect those unspoken wishes during her stay here. However, she still intended to uphold her promise to Roan, and attempt to keep the woman in gay spirits.

The countess was clothed in a long, dark, fur lined coat, her hair once more done up impressively atop her head. Apparently she always wore it like this, no matter the occasion.

"Greetings, cousin!" called Roan from just inside the carriage.

Her only response was a dip of the head. It was hard to fathom what she was thinking, though it seemed likely that she was less than enthused about playing hostess for the ensuing fortnight. When they were all standing before her she forced a smile and welcomed them into her home. This was the clearest Clarke had ever been able to observe her features. Their first encounter had been under lantern light, and the second, her face had been partially obscured. Now in direct sunlight, she was able to see the slight imperfections painted across her skin. Rather than lessen her beauty, it rather enhanced it, and Clarke vowed to put pencil to paper at some point during their stay here.

The countess turned on her heel and led them through the doors, which were opened for her by servants. She shed her coat revealing a simple, yet clearly expensive green dress, the cut of which was somewhat suggestive, and Clarke caught herself staring before anyone noticed. Not that it was unusual for women to notice each others fashion and compliment it, but Clarke had been observing more than the dress itself. No doubt her artistic eye was to blame.

At any rate, they too handed off their traveling cloaks to a servant and proceeded to follow the countess further into the mansion. Various small statues and tapestries lined the walls, but it was the paintings in the parlour room that truly drew her attention. One of them seemed to be straight out of the art history books Countess Woods gifted her, and likely, it was. The fact that it was of a nude woman had nothing to do with Clarke's current absorption.

"You have had a long journey," said the countess. "Please, take a seat by the fire. Tea and biscuits will be served shortly."

Everyone save for Clarke did as she suggested, something the countess was quick to note. She came over to stand beside her.

"She's breathtaking," said Clarke, not taking her eyes off of Rembrandt's masterpiece. Impertinently she asked, "Is this the real _Bathsheba at her Bath_?"

"I'm afraid not," said the countess. "A man named Louis La Caze outbid my mother a number of years back, and he has since donated it to The Louvre so that all may enjoy her delights. My mother was so devastated by the loss that she commissioned a talented young Parisian man to duplicate the original."

"Aren't forgeries illegal?" she said cautiously, glancing sideways to gage the reaction.

"Only if the buyer does not know," replied the countess with the hint of a smirk. She caught Clarke's eye. "We shall keep this our little secret, yes?"

"Why of course, countess," she returned, also smirking slightly.

The countess nodded and added, "Thank you again for that flattering rendition, Miss Griffin. You are very talented."

"It was my pleasure to paint it. You make a fine specimen for such things."

They stared at one another for a moment longer before tea was announced and they moved to join the others.

The remainder of the day was spent in a lazy amiable fashion, chatting about nothing in particular. A short dinner was had and then the new arrivals retired early to their designated guest rooms, of which there were many. Clarke's was considerably larger than her own, the bed double the size of what she was accustomed to, and far more luxuriously adorned. Clarke thought it somewhat strange that the countess herself escorted them to their rooms, rather than have a servant do it. She bid Clarke goodnight and then moved only a few doors down before disappearing into what was presumably her own room.

* * *

The next day was far livelier. Immediately after leaving the mansion that morning, Roan decided to start a snowball fight. Having played with Wells often, she was well versed in this sport. Everyone joined in, even the countess. The woman had pinpoint accuracy and never once missed her target. She spared no one, not even Mrs. Griffin. The countess was actually laughing and enjoying herself, particularly when she walloped Roan in the face with a very large amount of snow. Bits of her hair came loose in the ensuing chaos, and Clarke found herself just standing there staring at her until her father hit her from the side and brought her back to reality.

In the afternoon they went ice skating. Being a city slicker, this was a sport she was _not_ well versed in, and quickly made a fool of herself by falling on her backside the second her blades touched the ice. Roan laughed at her misfortune and held out a hand which she begrudgingly accepted. He continued to hold her hand as he gently maneuvered them around the pond. Her parents were likewise attached, except it was her mother supporting her father. In more ways than one, she took after him.

In contrast, the countess easily glided past them as if she were born to it, even going so far as to bend forward, lifting one leg in the air. Once again she was wearing men's clothing, something her mother had clearly not approved of, and her father had been initially surprised by, but otherwise no one batted an eye at. Well, that was not strictly true. Clarke couldn't help but notice how form fitting her trousers were, how firm the woman's backside was. Again, she chalked this perusal of her figure up to her artist's eye.

"Are you going to put on a show for us, cousin?" called Roan.

In response, the countess sped back over, just about crashing into them, instead veering off, and twirling around them, smirking all the while. Roan swatted at her and Clarke almost fell because of it, but the countess steadied her from behind. Then before she knew it, the countess had grabbed her other hand and pulled her away from Roan, laughing at his indignant expression when he realized what had just happened. Clarke laughed with her when Roan attempted to chase after them but was much too slow. The countess held her waist firmly with her other hand so that she could have greater control over Clarke's own sloppy movements. It was invigorating and somewhat terrifying to move this quickly on the glass-like surface. She wondered how she hadn't managed to trip both of them up. She wondered how the countess kept the ice so smooth.

As if reading her mind, the countess said, "The man I hired for the job has a strange contraption. I do not understand how it works and he refuses to explain. The results speak for themselves, so I forgive his insolence."

They dodged Roan for some minutes until it was clear he was about to explode. "Yes, yes, you are masterful, cousin!" he yelled. "Now stop being a brat and give my girl back!"

"I suppose I should return you to him now. We can't wound his male pride further or he shall be sour the rest of the day. Which of course would be a terrible pity."

They smirked at one another and then the countess changed course and deposited her with Roan. A small part of her felt odd at the lose of contact, but she figured it was due to the lose of her previous speed, and nothing more.

* * *

On the twentieth of December, two days after arriving at the estate, they finally had a tour of the mansion and immediate grounds. The mansion was even more massive than she had been anticipating and it took hours to look through every room (or at least the ones opened to them). They came into a hallway lined with portraits, and it did not take a genius to realize they were Woods family portraits. As they quickly passed through, Roan needlessly pointed out a much younger version of his cousin, dressed in a frilly pink dress, reminiscent of her own childhood horror. She caught a glimpse of another depicting a handsome young man. From the little Roan had said, she gathered it to be the countesses brother, Aden.

At the juncture here, they bypassed another area, an entire wing, and Roan muttered that was where they had all expired. All four members of The Woods family had become ill with a particularly nasty strain of consumption, but only Alexandria had survived the ordeal...physically at least. Clarke couldn't fathom how difficult it must have been to hold their hands at their sick beds and watch them waste away one by one within the span of a couple of months. At least Wells had gone quickly, having been run over by a reckless carriage driver.

Some time later they entered what appeared to be a small ballroom but turned out to be a fencing room. There were several sets of suits, face masks, and swords. It seemed all three variants of the weapons were on hand, depending on the type of match to be had. Without prompting, Roan scooped up the lightest of the bunch from the rack, the foil, and swished his wrist back and forth like a muskateer.

"Care for a quick match, cousin? Show our guests how it's done?"

"Perhaps another time," Countess Woods replied, all but ignoring him as she strode to the exit on the other side.

He seemed somewhat crestfallen so she nudged his shoulder and said, "I should very much like to learn the basics of this sport. It seems quite thrilling."

"Indeed it is, Miss Griffin," he said, since her parents were in hearing range, "indeed it is."

They weren't given a tour of the basement as it was the home of the servants, and wasn't their place to intrude upon. Which was rather strange logic since the servants were continuously intruding in the countesses home and bedroom, you name it. Though the mansion was vast, one could scarce go anywhere without coming across someone dusting or otherwise tidying up. It was a rather thankless job and she was thankful to have been born into some money, not that she thought any less of those individuals that weren't, indeed, she was fairly close to Monroe, but she simply couldn't imagine herself coping in such circumstances, mostly because of needing to hold her tongue.

* * *

Bright and early the next morning Roan announced to the breakfasting party that he was going to go chop down their Christmas tree. The prospect seemed dubious at best, so naturally everyone offered to accompany him in the selection process, expecting some sort of spectacle. The quintet roamed the grounds for hours until finally agreeing upon the ideal specimen: an eight foot tall spruce. It would just fit within the confines of the parlour room and would afford them hours of fun decorating.

Roan hefted the axe from his shoulder and prepared to strike. Clarke closed her eyes, envisioning something going terribly wrong. Instead, the axe made contact without a fuss, chipping the frozen bark away, and coming cleanly off. He continued on in this manner for half an hour, making progress, albeit slowly. Finally he was in need of a break and her father decided to try his hand at it. He may have sawed many a piece of wood in his workshop, but this was a decidedly different endeavour. Clarke winced as the axe missed its mark, hitting the frozen bark instead, and became immediately stuck in a knot, his arms obviously jarring painfully at the impact. After the shock to his ego and pride, he attempted to loosen it, only to find he could not. Roan was also too weary to retrieve it, so the countess stepped forward, placed a boot to the stump and yanked with both hands. It came free and for a moment she held it aloft like the sword of Excalibur, sunlight glinting on the holy blade.

Clarke had yet another image to sketch at a later date. The countess seemed to provide her with a limitless supply of inspiration. Without looking at either of the men, she proceeded to finish what Roan had started, had nearly finished.

"Stand back," she ordered right before she took another swing.

The tree groaned and crackled with the impact but did not fall. Rather than swing again, she simply kicked it. With that resounding crash there was silence for some moments, and then the countess hunched down and began tying ropes around the severed stump still attached to the tree. Clarke joined her and then passed out a line to the men, who took a hold. Together they managed to drag the behemoth all the way back to the mansion.

"Should have brought a horse," grumbled her father after the first few minutes of labour.

Clarke once again found herself staring at the countess, and this time she was caught. The countess gave her a small smile and Clarke glanced away, feeling distinctly embarrassed.

With the help of some servants, they lifted the tree up the many steps to the front door and proceeded to very carefully navigate the hallways and take it round into the parlour room. After a much needed tea break, the countess ordered decoration supplies to be brought to them, and soon they had more items than their ten hands could handle at once. The countess lit a candle in a small holder and balanced it on one of the thicker branches.

Roan immediately admonished her. "Lit candles? Don't be daft, cousin! They are a fire hazard!"

The countess looked irritated at his remark, specifically since it embarrassed her, but she clearly saw the logic in his less than delicate remark and blew it out, removing it from the tree altogether. She excused herself a moment later. Clarke had half a mind to go after her but instead got to cutting out whimsical shapes from a variety of colourful paper with her mother. Roan and her father simply began hanging red and blue baubles on the first of many branches. They proceeded merrily in this fashion for some time, even going so far as to sing a number of carols.

When the countess returned it was with a large bowl of something foreign and white and steaming.

"What on earth is it?" asked her mother, picking out a piece and sniffing it dubiously.

The countess took a piece of the unknown substance and stuck it in her mouth. "Popped corn," she informed them. "Seasoned with a little salt and butter. I had some during my travels. It is quite tasty."

"I will concur, it is very good," added Roan, suddenly looking ravenous.

Everyone took a piece and instantly fell in love. Clarke took an entire handful and disgracefully shoved it in her face. Her mother scolded her bad manners, all the while looking like she too wished to do nothing more. The men and the countess simply laughed, and Clarke flushed prettily at the undue attention.

Once the tree was decorated as high as anyone could reach, a ladder was brought in by one of the servants so that they could finish it in full. The honour of placing the crystal star on top went to Clarke who handled it with the utmost care. It was an heirloom from almost a hundred years ago. They stood back and admired their efforts of the past two hours. It was definitely not in want of colour and cheer. As expected, the star was the shining glory, casting fragmented light and even a rainbow. Satisfied with their accomplishment, they went to a late lunch.

* * *

Sore from the last two days of outdoor activities, the party lazed about the mansion playing exotic boardgames the cousins had acquired during their travels. One of the simplest yet most frustrating was from India, called Snakes and Ladders. It was apparently a morality game, where the snakes represented temptation and sin, and the ladders represented goodness and virtue. As such, there were far more snakes than there were ladders, signifying all the vices one could easily succumb to in life.

"If this game is a good judge of character," grinned Roan, "you are positively wicked, Miss Griffin."

"Let us hope it is not then," she said as calmly as she could considering she had once again hit the longest snake and was consequently back to square one.

Right after her turn, the countess rolled the die and finished the game for the third time in a row. Clarke silently fumed. Was there nothing the countess could not do? Even best chance itself?

"I wager you would make a formidable gambler, countess," she muttered, somewhat grumpily.

"Thankfully such a vice holds little interest for me," the woman returned with a smirk. "Otherwise I would surely upset many gentlemen challengers."

"Must I defend my honour again?" quipped Roan in mock seriousness, thumping the table. "I will die in the attempt if necessary. Anything less would be unmanly."

The three of them shared a look and then burst into laughter, her parents looking across the parlour room from the books they had been reading.

"But in all seriousness," continued Roan, slightly out of breath, "do not by any circumstances challenge my dear cousin to a round of chess. You will be eviscerated. She has no mercy."

"Oh shush, Roan, I am not without feeling." She smirked again, glancing at Clarke. "But it is true that I rarely lose."

"Perhaps I shall be the exception to the rule then?" suggested Clarke. "Perhaps you shall bow down to me before the night is through?"

"I do not think it likely, Miss Griffin, but by all means, let us play. Heaven knows I could do with a new," she looked sweetly at Roan, " _capable_ challenger."

And so a new board was set and a different game commenced. Wells taught her everything she knew of this particular game. He was considered a rising talent before his untimely demise and likely would have gone on to tour the world. So even though Clarke had not played since his death, she was fairly confident she could provide at least a small challenge for the countess.

It was a rocky start. She made a couple of idiotic errors and the countess did not take pity and grant her a pass. By the time she had a feel for the game once more, it was too late. The countess dispatched of her queen, all but ensuring her victory. Still, Clarke would not concede defeat, and forced the countess to well and truly butcher her before the game finally came to a close.

"An admirable attempt," said the countess kindly, if not a little disappointed. "I have faced many a worse player."

"Again," she replied with some intensity. "I wish to try again."

The countess just stared at her unblinking and bowed her head slightly. They reset the board and recommenced. Clarke's mind was firing on all cylinders this time, swirling with all of the strategies and maneuvers Wells taught her before he died. Though no silly mistakes were made, Clarke could not find a way to get the upper hand. It seemed the countess knew all of the same strategies and how to combat them. For every piece Clarke managed to take, the countess just took one right back. They dwindled one by one until they were both left with only their Kings, and a knight and bishop, respectively. There was no way to put the other in checkmate. Effectively they had reached a stalemate.

"Oh, well done, Miss Griffin!" congratulated Roan, clapping his hands with bravado. "I have never seen this happen before! She nearly got you, cousin!"

Her father and mother had likewise come over to watch the lengthy game, and also paid her some compliments.

However, Clarke was far too entranced by the way the countess was looking at her to pay them much mind. She seemed to be somewhat in awe, and Clarke was finding it difficult to breathe. She almost imagined the woman would have bowed to her right then and there if no one else had been present.

The moment passed and the countess stood, holding out her hand. "Good game. I should like to play again some time."

Clarke took her bare hand and they shook once. It was the first time they had touched skin to skin, all other times involved gloves. She pretended she didn't get another thrill at the contact.

"As would I."

The countess nodded and released her hand, they immediately retreated behind her back. "Well, I believe I shall retire for the evening. Goodnight, everyone."

"Goodnight, countess," was the general reply.

Clarke tore her gaze away from her retreating figure to look at Roan who was saying something or other to her. "...point in me asking for a match? You are out of my league!"

* * *

The extreme idleness of the previous day had Roan roaring to go today. He suggested a hunting expedition to aid in food preparation for the impending Christmas dinner. To add to the excitement, he also suggested it be a competition of sorts, that they should pair off and attempt to bag as many hares as possible within a three hour period. Naturally, her mother had no interest in such a thing, neither did Clarke for that matter, but if she didn't go, the teams would be unevenly matched. Clarke could not go off alone with Roan for such an extended period of time, and her father knew little of hunting, or the considerable estate grounds. So it was that Clarke now found herself in the company of the countess.

The snow in the surrounding acres was quite deep, so they wore snowshoes. And while they were remarkable aids for this type of terrain, they were also somewhat unwieldy and cumbersome. Clarke knew she was slowing the countess down, and she was sorry for it, though the woman did not seem to mind. They were both attired in men's clothing for this excursion, and Clarke was once again reminded just how liberating the experience was. No skirts to trip on or hike up. No corset to confine her breathing. If it weren't for the snowshoes she would surely have taken off running.

She said as much to the countess who glanced sideways at her and smirked. "Indeed, it is a refreshing experience, one I never tire of. I assure you, Miss Griffin, I would wear them everyday if it were more socially acceptable."

"Society can eat my hat," Clarke replied defiantly. She would have linked her arm with the countess if it would not have made it even more difficult to maneuver. She settled for nudging the woman's elbow. "We should start a revolution, countess. Someone of your stature could surely lead the charge. I have little doubt that women all over the country would follow your lead. 1875 could be the dawn of a new, glorious era!"

The countess shook her head, amused. "You make it sound so romantic, Miss Griffin. Politics are anything but. You are forgetting that progress _has_ already occurred, elsewise, you would not be here on _my_ estate. I believe there shall be more change along these lines in the years to follow. We cannot simply storm parliament. You must have patience."

"That has never been one of my strong suits, I'm afraid," admitted Clarke.

"You seemed to possess enough of it last night. That was quite the marathon match."

Vividly recalling that odd moment, Clarke avoided looking at the countess, "Yes, well, my good friend Mrs. Sterling has given me plenty of cause to learn some."

The countess chuckled lightly. "Yes, Roan has spoken of The Sterlings in passing. How is Mrs. Sterling faring in her new married life?"

"She is quite unchanged and accepts her new duties with as much enthusiasm as she does everything else."

"I am sorry for taking you away from her this holiday season," said the countess a little hesitantly.

"Do not be, countess. Indeed she was upset at our parting, however, she was quite enthused about the prospect of my coming here for such an extended duration. I am led to understand it is quite the honour."

"My family did not often have company here, no," said the countess softly.

Wanting to quickly change the topic, Clarke uttered the first thing that came to mind. "Roan has told me that you are writing a novel. I commend your use of a heroine. There are far too few in current literature."

The countess kept her eyes ahead, seemingly lost in thought.

"Have you completed much of it?"

A jerk of the head sideways. "No."

"That's unfortunate," she pressed on, "perhaps I could be of assistance? Talking about whatever has you stumped might give you an epiphany of sorts."

Countess Woods looked at her for what seemed an eternity before responding, "As I have already informed my dear cousin, I do not desire to share its contents with anyone just yet...perhaps never."

"Forgive me, countess," she said somewhat abashed at her tone, "I only wished to help."

The countess gave her a curt nod and then blessedly looked away, holding up a hand, telling her to halt. Clarke looked where she was looking to find the barely distinguishable snow hare sniffing about some twenty yards ahead. Very slowly the countess removed the rifle from behind her back and took aim. Though Clarke was not holding the weapon, she held her breath all the same and watched in some amazement as the countess easily dispatched of the poor creature.

The countess gestured for her to follow, and the very dead, bloody hare was deposited in the sack Clarke had the honour of carrying. The countess pulled out her pocket watch and said, "That took much too long. We must cease all intercourse from this point forth unless we wish to grant the men an easy victory."

In other words, the countess was telling her to close her trap.

* * *

There was time for a final hare before they must head back and stay within the parameters of the hunting tournament. As usual, the countess lined up the shot.

Unusually, she lowered her rifle, cocked her head to the side and said, "Would you like an attempt, Miss Griffin?"

It was the first they had spoken to one another in hours and Clarke was somewhat startled by the sound of her voice.

"Oh, I don't know...I have never even held a firearm before. I will surely miss."

The countess just stared at her in that unnerving manner in which she did not blink. "You will never know if you do not try."

Not one to back down from a challenge, she laid the sack of dead hares down and took the rifle out of the countesses' hands, trying to mimic the same stance.

"Hold it a little higher," instructed the countess. "Aim slightly to your right. Before you take the shot, hold your breath. Your aim will improve considerably. Now, there _is_ a small amount of kickback so-"

Clarke took the shot and it went very wide. The unscathed prey took off like the wind leaving no hope of a second attempt. She lowered the still smoking barrel and looked sideways at the countess who was shaking her head again, somewhat amused.

"Yes, patience is definitely not your strong suit, Miss Griffin."

Clarke handed the rifle back to the countess and hefted the sack over her shoulder. She would never tell her that she had purposefully missed. Killing was not in her nature.

* * *

On the way back to the mansion, they descended a slight hill. It was perhaps more treacherous than either of them anticipated, and Clarke tripped and landed awkwardly thanks to the snowshoes. When she attempted to right herself, she yelped at the savage twinge that shot up her leg.

"Miss Griffin," said the countess in concerned tones, hunched down beside her, "you appear to be injured."

 _How observant of you_ , she wanted to snap, but did not.

"May I take a look?" Countess Woods asked.

Clarke nodded and the countess unstrapped the snowshoe and slowly unlaced her boot. The countess very carefully eased the boot and thick sock from her foot, and then pulled off her gloves to feel around her foot and ankle. At the first touch, Clarke gasped and the countess immediately retracted her hand, looking up at Clarke in a worried manner. No one besides herself had touched her bare feet in a very long time. Clarke was unused to the sensation. The fact that the most alluring woman she had ever set eyes on was touching her so gently surely had nothing to do with her reaction.

"I'm fine, countess," she reassured, slightly breathless. "Continue."

Clarke tried not to enjoy the woman's ministrations too much but found the task difficult even though she was in pain. The countess felt around her ankle for some time before coming to an assessment.

She smiled in relief and said, "Nothing appears to be broken, Miss Griffin. I believe you are simply suffering from a bad sprain."

The countess redressed her foot and then in a reminiscent manner to that of their first meeting, helped Clarke to her feet. Clarke grit her teeth when even a slight amount of pressure on her ankle hurt like the dickens.

"I don't think I can walk all the way back, even with your aid. You will need to leave me here and go fetch a hor-"

Rather than do as she suggested, the countess simply swept her into an intimate embrace, wrapping her arms around her neck. Clarke's breath caught at such close proximity, at the new angle of her features, at the firmness of her arm muscles through her fur lined coat. The fact that the countess was not wearing a corset was driving her to complete distraction. The countess did not spare her a single glance but simply began marching forward, their combined weight causing them to sink deeper into the snow than before, further hampering their progress.

"The hares," she eventually managed. "The competition."

"You are my guest, Miss Griffin," the countess replied in an odd voice. "Your well being is my primary concern."

After a few moments she said, "I'm sorry I ruined your hunting expedition...again."

"There will be others."

Attempting to lighten the situation slightly she smirked, "Perhaps one day you will not need to rescue me."

The countess turned her head putting their faces much too close to one anothers. The breathtaking woman looked at her almost tenderly and murmured, "Perhaps one day you will return the favour."

Clarke gulped and licked her lips. The countesses' eyes flickered down like they had at the ball and then back up to meet Clarke's gaze once more. Except this time Clarke could see that her pupils were blown wide open. She had seen this phenomenon before with Mr. Collins and Roan, even Wells on occasion. Her heart hammered wildly as they shared an unwavering look. Was the countess attracted to her? Or was this simply a trick of the light? The fact that the countesses' lips were slightly parted told Clarke all she needed to know. The question now became, was _she_ attracted to the _countess_? It would certainly explain an awful lot of her inexplicable reactions to the woman. But how could she be attracted to her in that taboo way if she was also attracted to men? Such a thing was not possible, was it?

A fox ran across their path, drawing their attention away from one another.

Neither said a word to the other the entire arduous trek back.

* * *

 **I think she's kind of like Fine Stud Lexa, Victorian edition. I was already writing her like this before the tumblr thing happened. Lmao.**

 **My goodness. There's so much _touching_ this chapter. How scandalous.**

 **There you go Clarkey. You're finally starting to get it.**

 **Things might be awkward now. Huh.**


	6. Chapter 6

When they were nearly out of the woods (both figuratively and literally), the countess herself managed to stumble on a snow covered root. Being fairly well exhausted by this point, she could not maintain her balance and she dropped Clarke into the now shallow snow, tumbling on top of her soon after. With no corsets in the way, Clarke was quite enjoying the feel of the countesses body pressed against hers. Unfortunately, the countess propped herself up on her forearms almost as soon as they landed. "Have I hurt you?"

At a loss for words, Clarke only shook her head. Breathing heavily, the countess gazed down on her and her splayed out golden locks. To her surprise, she ran her fingers through her hair, eyes dark with desire again. For a second it seemed as though she might kiss her, something Clarke was not averse to in that moment.

As if only just then realizing her faux pas, she looked at Clarke in extreme mortification and promptly pushed herself into a standing position.

"You have lovely hair, Miss Griffin," she muttered, not looking at her, and then scooped her up once more. Clarke was too frazzled to laugh.

* * *

Her mother also examined her injury as gently as possible, yet she still could not suppress the hiss that escaped her lips. Perhaps the novelty of the circumstance with the countess helped to assuage the greater extent of her pain.

Ice was chipped away from the large block outside the mansion, wrapped in cloth and applied to the swollen appendage. Once the countess was satisfied that she was in good hands, she disappeared for the remainder of the day, only reappearing at dinner time, during which she would not make any eye contact with Clarke whatsoever. Oh she would _look_ in Clarke's direction, but never directly, never _into_ her eyes. Clarke did not fully appreciate just how frequently the countess had been staring at her until after she felt the loss of those piercing green depths. With this exception, there was no change in the countesses charming attitude and no one else was the wiser.

To amuse her in her 'woebegone' state, Roan insisted on playing charades that evening, men versus women.

"You must have another shot at besting us, cousin," he added.

Clarke could see that the countess was uncomfortable with this proposition and very much wanted to disappear again. She wondered when she had become so adept at reading the other woman's slight tells. She was somewhat surprised Roan could not see what she saw considering he was usually so perceptive. She didn't want to presume to speak for the countess though so she held her tongue.

With a barely suppressed grumble, the countess agreed.

"You will regret this challenge, cousin," she smirked.

The tension in the parlour room (or at least, her own mind) seemed to dissipate and Clarke was able to enjoy the ensuing silliness even though Countess Woods still would not look her directly in the eye. Despite the countesses apparent confidence in her abilities, it soon became quite clear that the women would lose once again. Mostly because her mother and the countess were an absolutely abominable pair. Clarke had rarely seen a worse team, and she had seen Mr. Kane (who only had one hand) participate.

The countess kept mimicking something that was clearly supposed to signify ice skating, but her mother invariably guessed everything except that particular sport. If Clarke had to pick a moment the countess was close to losing her temper, it was during the duration of this round. Having people (besides Roan) laugh at her expense was doubtless a new sensation and likely only served to further vex the reluctant player.

Contrarily, the men were quite in sync, like they had been from the beginning of their acquaintance, and with only one exception, managed to guess the word or phrase before the sand in the hourglass expired.

"Time's up!" she announced for the last time.

The countess nearly stomped her foot like a child. "Well, what on earth was it?" muttered the woman with barely restrained ire.

"A cuckoo clock, of course," replied her exasperated mother. "I should have thought it abundantly obvious!"

Clarke would never have guessed such a thing herself.

"Obvious, indeed!" exclaimed the countess, hands clenched.

Everyone was laughing hysterically at their abysmal performance and Clarke was certain the countess was about to storm out of the room, but then the woman simply took a deep breath, turned her back on all of them, and went to stand in front of the window for some minutes to compose herself.

As they were merrily rehashing the highlights of the game, the countess stalked up to them and said, "I should like a rematch."

Roan yawned, waving her off. "Maybe tomorrow, cousin. It's late and I'm exhausted."

" _Fine_ ," she huffed petulantly, and this time she _did_ storm off.

"She's such a queer girl sometimes," chuckled Roan. "Such a sore sport when she loses."

* * *

Thanks to her throbbing ankle, and her confusing thoughts, she was unable to sleep properly. When she heard a noise in the hallway she lit a candle, grabbed a cane with a golden dragon handle and hobbled out the door. She listened intently, and then it repeated itself from the countesses room. Considering the awkwardness between them now, Clarke hesitated to approach, but eventually did so, almost pressing her ear to the door. She stood there some moments, breathing shallowly, and then fell into the countesses arms when the door was abruptly opened and she lost her footing.

How many times would she unexpectedly end up in this same predicament? She had scarcely touched Roan as many times as she had this mysterious woman, and Clarke would be telling a falsehood if she claimed not to take any enjoyment out of the countesses embrace. The countess was surprisingly warm, and yet, Clarke experienced a shiver up her spine, the hairs on her neck standing on end. The women perhaps stayed in contact longer than they should have before the countess helped her to a cushioned chair and then distanced herself, striding across the room and over to her desk.

The countess was dressed in the same clothing she had been wearing that evening minus the shawl. Her voluminous hair was down, cascading over one shoulder, and Clarke was finding it difficult not to stare. It was fairly chilly in here, no doubt in large part due to the feebly spurting fire. It was a wonder the countess was as warm as she was. Some individuals blood simply ran hot.

When Clarke steadied her heartbeat, she saw that this was not in fact the countesses bedroom, but rather her study, complete with telescope pointed up at the night sky. There was also a black bear skin rug on the floor, and she wondered if the countess had shot and killed it herself. The most singular aspect of the study's design were the hordes of candles, far more than was necessary to illuminate the room. Some even hung down from the ceiling in little metal cages. It was almost as if she were attempting to keep the darkness at bay, eternally.

"Is there something I can help you with, Miss Griffin?" the countess asked, scribbling away at the piece of paper before her with a black fountain pen. She wondered if it was the same one that had written the caring note about the ball, where she had inexplicably signed with her Christian name.

"I heard a noise, and came to investigate," she said meekly.

"I sometimes pace while composing my thoughts. I'm sorry if I awoke you."

"No, not at all. I was already awake." Unconsciously she rubbed at her shin, the skin of which was exposed from her nightgown.

The scribbling halted momentarily and then continued on. "I can have the servants fetch you more ice if you so desire."

As much as Clarke didn't want to bother them at this ungodly hour, she knew she would never get back to sleep unless she received some relief, both for her ankle and her mind. The remainder of her stay here would be unbearable if the countess never deigned to look in her eyes again. "If it wouldn't be too much tro-"

The countess reached behind her and tugged on a tasseled rope. "Someone will be here presently."

As usual, they fell into an uncomfortable silence. "Is that your novel?" she said, desperate to break it, but too cowardly to address the real issue.

"My journal," murmured the countess, absentmindedly.

Being somewhat shallow, Clarke wondered if the countess had ever written anything about her, if she was currently writing something about her. There was only one way to find out but Clarke was not about to invade the sacred privacy of a woman's journal, especially not while this unbearable tension existed between them.

"I'm not very good at keeping one myself. I suppose it's because I lead a rather dull life."

No response.

"Do you ever sleep?" she wondered aloud.

"I do not sleep much these days, no. Not since..." The countess cleared her throat and continued writing. Clarke always seemed to put her foot in her mouth around this woman and that was not about to change with her next utterance.

"I lost someone close to me too. His name was Wells. We were-"

The countess put down her pen and stared at her. There was no tenderness this time and Clarke instantly regretted ever desiring her gaze again. "Just because you have thoughts does not mean you should voice them."

The rudeness of the remark caught her off guard and Clarke simply glared back. A short while later she decided that she did not need that ice after all and pulled herself up with the aid of the cane, Roan had previously offered her. She began to hobble towards the door. A moment later there was a deep sigh and the countess by her side. She didn't attempt to touch Clarke though.

"Forgive me, Miss Griffin, I did not mean to be cross or insensitive. There are simply a great many things on my mind. Please, allow me to escort you back to your room."

Side by side they walked in silence until they reached Clarke's door.

"It's all right, countess. You need not feel discomforted around me. What happened in the forest..." She hesitated before placing a hand to her forearm. The countesses neck snapped upwards. "We shall keep this our little secret, yes?"

The countess nodded once curtly, relief seeping into the tense lines of her jaw and shoulders. "Thank you, Miss Griffin. And I apologize most profusely if I have at all made you ill at ease during your stay here. That was never my intent. If you-"

Clarke cut off her babbling by sticking her own fingers in the woman's hair. The experience was not unpleasant. Judging by its silky texture, she clearly bathed regularly. The countess froze and stared at her wide eyed. "You have lovely hair, countess."

Clarke raised an eyebrow and smirked and the countess glanced away blushing. She hoped by making a joke of it, she would feel less embarrassed about her own blunder. Clarke retracted her hand and then they simply stared at one another until the servant finally arrived. It took him two attempts to grab their attention and then the countess told him what was needed, and swept away in the opposite direction of her study, leaving them both staring after her.

* * *

With her ankle still out of sorts the next day, Roan carried her down the stairs and into the dining room. Despite her best efforts, she could not help but to compare the two sensations from either cousin. She enjoyed being in both of their arms and could not say which she enjoyed more. Or at least, that is what she _told_ herself...

He deposited her on the ground a moment before her parents noticed what had been going on, and then she held his hand and limped over to the nearest available seat. Unusually, the countess was the last to arrive for breakfast, and none dared eat without her, especially not after last night's fiasco.

They buttered bread in silence and then Roan said, "The ice looks to be particularly fine this morning, cousin, would you like to go for a skate?"

Clarke groaned internally. The countess clenched her butter knife tightly and then placed it aside. She looked to her and Clarke was thankful they were back to their usual ways in public. "How is your ankle faring, Miss Griffin?"

"A little better, thank you."

"I am glad to hear it." She took a sip of water. "Now, I _had_ planned on cross country skiing for the day, but considering your state, I think it only fair if we all remain here."

"Oh, that really won't be necessary, countess," she interjected. "It is appreciated, but not necessary. Please don't feel the need to cater to me."

The countess appeared to hold back an eyeroll. "You are my guest, Miss Griffin, I believe that is _precisely_ what I am supposed to be doing."

"In that case, cousin," said Roan, "what do you say to a little friendly competition?" He grinned. "There's nothing like the clash of cold steel in the morning."

"You will regret this challenge, cousin," she said, repeating the words from last night.

"So you keep saying," he smirked. "So far this gentleman challenger has been left far from upset."

* * *

Clarke and her parents sat just off to the side of the designated fight area. The countess and Roan were fully adorned in their fencing suits, save for their masks, which they held under their armpits. Titus stood even closer, as he would be acting as the referee. He did not seem particularly pleased to be here, and _not_ because he was afraid of having an eye poked out (though indeed that seemed a possible occurrence). Likely he deemed such a duty beneath him, though Clarke did not quite understand what his purpose really was.

Roan looked over in her direction, the countesses eyes soon following, and called, "Miss Griffin, wish me luck!"

"Good luck!" she returned, glancing between them. The countess lowered her gaze ever so slightly at the inclusion, the faintest of smirks apparent.

Clarke was suddenly apprehensive about the outcome of this match. If she were being completely truthful with herself, she was not sure who she wanted to be the victor. The fact that she had begun to be aware of her conflicting feelings for the countess only muddied the waters further and caused her a great deal of guilt.

The cousins adjusted their masks over their faces, becoming expressionless steel, and took somewhat ridiculous fencing poses, Épée's at the ready. The countess being of slimmer, leaner stature, looked more suited to such a pose, whereas Roan seemed somewhat ungainly and out of place. And indeed, as soon as the match began, the countess lunged forward so quickly that Roan had little chance to attempt a defense, and easily scored the first point.

"Well done, countess!" congratulated her father, thoroughly impressed with her lightning fast reflexes. Indeed, Clarke had also received a thrill at the sheer speed with which she had moved. Roan turned his head to look at her father, likely feeling somewhat betrayed.

Again they took their poses. This time however, the countess did not attempt the same lunging strategy, and simply waited for Roan to make a move, which he obliged a couple of seconds later. The countess gracefully deflected his blow and redirected her own point to hit him in the shoulder.

"I must say, you're in fine form today, cousin," he chuckled a little ruefully, rolling his recently abused shoulder. "Perhaps a little _too_ fine. I will have to step up my game earlier than anticipated."

"Yes, please do," came the more serious tones of the countess, "I find myself growing bored."

The third point was less easily won by the countess, but won all the same. After several blows of their Épée's, she managed to hit him in the side. Clarke winced in reciprocation. The countess was hitting him quite hard, so that even through the protective barrier of the fencing suit, it was stinging. Roan was clearly getting agitated but rather than complain he just took up the pose once more and waited for Titus to give the go ahead for the next round.

A clash of furious steel and twists of bodies, and finally Roan managed to score a point squarely in the countesses chest. After that, the duel became increasingly less friendly, if not outrightly hostile, and a couple of times it looked as though both parties were close to striking the other with fists or feet. Clarke knew first hand what Roan could do to an opponent if he so chose, and the thought of him kicking the countess or otherwise brutalizing her was not a pleasant one. Thankfully Titus never had to intervene in this regard and simply called the points as they were rapidly accumulated.

Clarke was not the only one uncomfortable by the end of the match, in which, unsurprisingly, the countess won.

"Well, that was quite something," muttered her frowning mother. She disapproved of most of the countesses unladylike behaviour and activities but was not foolish enough to say something within her hearing.

Roan ripped off his mask and tersely said, "What was that about? Have I done something to offend you?"

She peeled off her own mask and stared at him smugly. "I don't have the pleasure of understanding you, cousin. We dueled as you requested. You lost." She moved closer and patted him on his sore shoulder condescendingly. "I know how fragile gentlemen's egos are, but try not to become too upset."

The countess then sauntered out of the tense room, catching Clarke's eye once before she did so. It seemed to Clarke as though the countess were staking a claim on her affections, unintentionally perhaps (though that was doubtful), but a claim all the same. Clarke was not sure how she should feel about this development. As much as she enjoyed the countesses company, she was all but engaged to Roan, whom she cared about a great deal, and whom, she had _thought_ the countess did as well.

* * *

Clarke would have accosted her about this matter, but she was hampered because of her ankle, and the mansion was quite vast, and she could not locate her. Some hours later however, she did catch a glimpse of her, but she was not alone. On an upper balcony, Titus spoke at her as he had done numerous times at the ball. There was too much distance and wind to make out what he was saying and when they spotted her, he ceased speaking altogether. Hands behind her back, the countess impassively watched her slow progress with her father for a few moments more and then moved through a curtain and out of view.

Christmas Eve dinner was an awkward affair - in which the countess drank far more wine than was her wont - and Clarke was glad for its speedy conclusion. Roan was even more out of sorts over the way the countess was behaving, fearing she was slipping back into her old detached ways, as she had done a couple of times since her family's passing. She took it upon herself to console him with softly spoken words and light caresses to his hands. It was during this brief bout of privacy beside the parlour room fire that he finally opened up to her about his own unfortunate past.

The details were as follows: About a decade ago Roan caught a close friend of the family assaulting a woman late one evening. When he intervened on her behalf, the drunken man pulled a knife and attempted to stab him. In the ensuing struggle Roan accidentally killed him. Even though Roan's father believed his story, the father of the deceased man did not, and sent the police after him. Though they searched high and low for the woman in question, she was never found to testify to the veracity of Roan's account. There were no other witnesses to the altercation. The fact that Roan and the deceased man had always had a bit of a rivalry between them did not help his case. Consequently, he was unjustly imprisoned for some years, creating quite the scandal for his family. It was only with the combined influence of The Hawkins and The Woods (and considerable sums of money) that they were finally able combat the influence of the other family and secure his release. However, the damage had been done and Roan could never claim the remaining inheritance, his reputation in tatters. He left New York City and never returned.

Needless to say, Clarke was rather shocked by the depths of this debacle, and the suffering he must have endured.

"I understand that my sordid past might change the way you feel about me," he had said forlornly, "but I felt I must tell you the whole truth before any further...arrangements might be made between us."

She looked at him wide eyed at the implication. Was he planning to propose right now?

Thankfully he did not and simply allowed her to quietly come to terms with this revelation for some moments more. Eventually she found her voice. "How is it that I have never heard of this scandal? Granted I was quite young at the time and it was overseas...but if The Woods themselves were involved..."

Roan shrugged. "They never publicly released the particulars. My father had considerable influence then and kept the foreign papers from printing the story."

"Have you seen your parents since you left?" she asked, gliding her fingertips against his own.

"A few times," he sighed. "I'm afraid our relationship has become even more strained since that fateful night. Alexandria is the only close family I truly possess, and even she seems to be slipping out of my grasp."

Clarke swallowed hard at the mention of the countess, of her growing guilt concerning the woman. Despite her unfriendly behaviour today, Clarke found herself just as mesmerized by her, if not more so. The harder she tried to deny her attraction, the stronger the pull became. She was afraid this seemingly unstoppable force would soon overcome her feelings for Roan and she would be redirected into Alexandria's arms once more, and this time she would _choose_ to be there. If that happened, she would destroy Roan completely, and she couldn't do that to him, not after he had been so lovely to her these past few months. She had to resist temptation and sin, evade the snakes and only climb the ladders henceforth. Maybe for once she could win the game.

Glancing around the deserted room, she slipped her hand fully into Roan's and said, "I don't feel any differently about you now, Roan." She smiled at him sideways where they sat in front of the fire. "In fact, I think it was quite brave to tell me what you did. I only wish I had a comparable experience to share with you."

"I would never wish such hardships upon you, Clarke," he whispered, placing his free hand against her cheek.

He kissed the corner of her temple and then pulled her into a tight, albeit, awkward embrace. "I thank God everyday for bringing you into my life."

Clarke smiled against his shoulder. When they parted he studied her closely by the flickering firelight and then did what she had been equally anticipating and dreading. He bent the knee. Roan took her hand and gazed up at her adoringly and Clarke's heart fluttered in kind. She was feeling faint and rather unsure of what would next come out of her mouth.

It was during this precise moment she became aware of the figure frozen in a threshold hung with mistletoe. Every part of the countess was rigid and unmoving, except her eyes. Green found blue. Clarke waited with baited breath for the horrible scene to unfold, for the countess to literally stab Roan in the back. Instead, she simply gave her a jerky nod and silently disappeared from sight, leaving the two lovers to do as they might.

* * *

On Christmas morning they assembled around the tree they had painstakingly acquired and began handing out the presents nestled beneath. There were not a great many of them and most were wrapped in plain brown paper tied up with strings, but none of them cared overly much about the presentation. It was what was inside that counted.

Clarke sipped at her absolutely delicious hot cocoa sprinkled with cinnamon while she watched Roan open his present. He pulled off the string and folded the brown paper back to reveal a little bag full of...

"Mustaches?" wondered Roan aloud as he held one up between his fingertips. He blinked in confusion, then looked over at her.

She grinned and said, "To commemorate our meeting."

As predicted, Roan burst out into raucous laughter, and she grinned wider, pleased with her gag gift. Her parents just glanced between them looking puzzled, but neither asked them to explain themselves.

He held a particularly ridiculous one under his nose and said, "Do I look dashing, Miss Griffin?"

"You look like a walrus," she responded, which set him (and her father) off all over again.

When he was finally done with his merriment, he leaned back in his chair and waited for her to open her present. She put aside her hot cocoa, and with all eyes on her, pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. She was a little nervous of what to expect. She had not accepted his proposal, but she had also not rejected it. Clarke simply told him she needed more time to think on such an important decision. Of course he had been disappointed, but he had understood, as he always did, and told her to take all the time she needed. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. As such, no one knew of his proposal...besides the countess. Dishearteningly, even when she saw the lack of engagement ring on her finger, Alexandria did not chipper up.

Clarke removed the item and stared at it for some moments. It was a blue beret of exquisite quality. Once again, it matched her eye colour precisely. She looked over at Roan and smiled. "Roan, it's lovely."

Her mother gave her a look for using his Christian name. They had known each other for months, it should not have been cause for a stink. However, Clarke then tempted fate by putting the beret on and kissing Roan on the cheek.

"They are popular with artists in Paris. I thought you should have one for yourself."

When Clarke sat down again, she noticed her father holding her mothers hand, as if keeping the woman from making a scene. Her father simply seemed amused and above all glad. He had always taken a shine to Roan. There was more than one person who would be heartbroken if she didn't accept his proposal. Clarke couldn't even bring herself to look at Alexandria. She already knew what she would find.

Coincidentally, it was now the countesses turn to open a present. A present Clarke had given her. A present Roan had suggested Clarke give her. Clarke forced herself to glance in her direction and say, "I hope you like them. I made them myself."

The countess held a red candle in her hand and stared at it without expression. Clarke's stomach dropped unpleasantly at the apparent lack of interest. "I stamped the bottoms too," she added feebly.

The countess turned it over to stare at the dragon, The Woods family crest, and then looked at Clarke. It was now clear to Clarke that the countess was struggling to maintain her composure.

"They're beautiful, Miss Griffin, thank you. I almost do not want to use them."

She had considered giving her a few choice selections of her sketches during her stay here, but eventually decided against it. Their situation was peculiar enough as it was, and some of those sketches were rather a little more than simply flattering. After the incident in the woods, Clarke was doubly thankful for the exclusion now.

Once the rest of the presents were exchanged, Roan hopped on the piano and began very poorly playing a rousing rendition of _Deck the Halls,_ to which her father joined in singing just as terribly.

* * *

Christmas Dinner was a much more grand affair than anything they had thus far done. A number of noblemen and women had been invited, twelve all told, and Clarke was currently sandwiched between a beautiful, yet dour woman and a rather effeminate man who clearly put more effort into his hair and garb than she herself had. A not unpleasant hint of lavender could be smelled on his person. The woman's name was Lady Indra, and the man's was Duke Jackson of Arkadia, a place she had never heard of before. When she said as much, the duke proceeded to give her a lengthy history lesson, by the end of which the first, second and third course had been served and she was still none the wiser as to its location.

She could see how amused Roan was by the way he was smirking and avoiding her eye. Clarke glared at him subtly, wondering if he had known all along just how much the duke liked to wax poetic. A throaty laugh caught her attention, and she glanced over at the countess and another rather attractive brown haired woman who was leaning towards her, elbows on the table, forgoing proper eating decorum. They had been talking in this conspiratorial manner the entire evening and though she pretended not to care, she most certainly did. Clarke glared in their direction instead, picking up her second glass of wine and draining the rest of the contents. Without even gesturing, a servant came and refilled her glass, which she began sipping at directly even though she felt light headed. By now Roan was accustomed to her habits and knew she did not partake of alcohol all that often, so it was unsurprising to her when she noticed him frowning at her.

Clarke began slurping at her soup, ignoring the dirty look of the haughty woman beside her. Clarke despised these sorts of dinner parties. She despised making small talk with people she would never see again, and who probably viewed her in thinly veiled contempt for nothing more than the 'misfortune' of being low born. She despised the feigned niceties and the neverending courses of bizarre dishes. But most of all, she despised the way Alexandria was looking at that other woman, Princess Luna of the Netherlands. It was idiotic of Clarke to think the countess was truly interested in her. She was no one of consequence. She had accomplished nothing of value. The countess only need ask, and any one of these nobles would gladly do her biding, no matter how shocking.

She finished her third glass of wine but this time the servant did not refill her glass, and a glance over at a still frowning Roan, told her who was to blame. Clarke wordlessly excused herself from the table, accidentally bumping into Lady Indra, who gave her an ice cold look, and then limped off towards the outdoors, hoping for some fresh air.

Roan followed soon after. "Clarke, what is the matter?"

"It's not important," she slurred, surprised by her own voice. She pawed at his face. "I've come to a decision, Roan. Let us marry."

Clarke was vaguely confused as to why he was not beaming at her in absolute love and adoration. She looked at him accusingly. "You're not happy."

"You're drunk, my dear," he replied somewhat tersely.

"So?"

"So, I would hope that you would be able to come to this very important decision while sober."

"Oh, I should hardly think the _how_ of it were all that important." She wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to kiss him but he turned his face away and removed her arms.

"Come along then, Clarke," he said with a sigh, "you're in need of rest. Perhaps in the morning we can discuss this matter again under more agreeable circumstances."

"I'm not tired in the least!" she said indignantly, yawning. Roan simply stared at her until she grumbled, "Oh very well. Take me to bed, Roan." She flushed even more than she currently was at the phrasing of her request, though Roan seemed unperturbed and held her to his side in an effort to keep her upright. He was quite fit and handsome and she couldn't help but wonder how many women he had been with. Surely he had been with some. _Surely_.

"What's it like to be with a woman?" she blurted before she even realized her lips were moving. This time they both flushed at the comment.

A moment later her mother approached them, looking quite put out. It was hard to say whether or not she had heard that last question. Perhaps she only appeared to be vexed because their bodies were so close to one another. Roan eagerly transferred the precious cargo, and once he was certain Mrs. Griffin could handle the troublesome charge, he headed back to the dinner, wondering just what on earth had gotten into Clarke Griffin.

* * *

 **Smooth Lexa, smooooth. Smooth, Clarke, smooooth.  
**

 **Such restraint. Much wow.**

 **Lexa probably had a wet dream about Clarke making candles with her hair blowing in the wind. I know I did. Lol.  
**

 **I'm curious, is it totally obvious I tacked on the tumbling part at the beginning? It's totally accidental every time they end up touching each other. Totally.**


	7. Chapter 7

She was too warm under her covers so she pushed them aside, eventually forgoing all attempts at sleep. A few moments later there was a knock on the door.

Clarke considered not answering but then changed her mind. "Come in."

The handle turned quickly and none other than the countess stood in the threshold, illuminated by the slight glow of a single candle, a _red_ candle. Clarke sat up straighter, her heart suddenly pounding. The countess had never come to her room before. She swept into the room, the purple train of her evening gown dragging out behind her. The countesses bosom seemed to be more on display than she previously recalled, and Clarke was having trouble keeping her gaze at an appropriate level.

"I heard pained noises whilst in my study. Are you quite well?"

She nodded dumbly as the countess moved right up to the side of her bed.

"You appear to be feverish, Miss Griffin." The woman placed the back of her hand to Clarke's forehead and Clarke sighed at the contact. "You are positively burning up! I shall send for the doctor straight away!"

The countess tried to leave but Clarke clasped the hand to her forehead, keeping it there. The countess turned back, giving Clarke a confused look.

"I do not require a doctor," she informed the other woman. With a burst of courage she added, "I only require you."

The countess raised both eyebrows. "Miss Griffin, you are clearly unwell and speaking nonsense."

Clarke took the hand from her forehead and kissed it.

"Miss Griffin..."

"Clarke, call me Clarke," she muttered, brushing her lips against the countesses knuckles again. "I assure you I am of sound mind."

"Roan? What of Roan?"

"I only require you," she reiterated, looking up into the darkening depths of the stock still, breathtaking beauty before her. "Come to bed, Alexandria."

As if in a trance, the countess placed the candle on the bedside table and then allowed Clarke to pull her into the bed with her. Clarke turned her arm over and kissed her wrist, moving her lips ever upward, past the crook of her elbow. They stopped briefly at the beginning of her sleeve and then moved to her collar and finally her neck.

"Oh Clarke," gasped Alexandria, breaths increasingly laboured. "Clarke...Clarke."

Clarke pulled back to gaze at the breathless wonder kneeling before her. Clarke decided to help her alleviate some of the strain on her breathing apparati by removing her corset. In order to accomplish this, she needed to first get Alexandria out of her dress.

She reached up behind the woman and began the unbuttoning process. The countess did not object, in fact, she seemed even more thrilled at the prospect than Clarke was. Alexandria's eyes opened to stare back at her, black as night. The transformation was complete. The passive participant suddenly took action.

She placed firm hands on either side of Clarke's neck and kissed her soundly on the lips. Clarke moaned, briefly forgetting about the buttons. When they parted, both panting, the countess fairly well gasping for air, she remembered her task and redoubled her efforts. As she began unlacing the corset, she moved her lips to Alexandria's chest, kissing and suckling what skin she could find. Alexandria thrust her hands into her hair, moaning, shoving Clarke's face still closer into her bosom. It was all Clarke could do to breathe herself. Thankfully the last of the laces were now undone, and the countess realizing this, released her head and slipped her dress from her shoulders. It pooled around her waist. She maintained eye contact as she pulled away the corset too. The countess smirked as she removed her hair pins and tossed her head back and forth, the sensual nature of the act exciting Clarke greatly.

Alexandria joined their lips anew, lowering Clarke onto the bed as she did so. Clarke wrapped her arms around her back, pulling her flush against her. Due to her chemise and Clarke's nightgown, their bare chests were not yet touching, and still the feel of the woman atop her was exquisite. Clarke shivered in anticipation for when they did touch fully. For the moment she was content to just hold Alexandria and stroke her lovely hair and-

A loud knock at the door startled her awake. For of course she were dreaming. Clarke felt foolish to believe otherwise. She was rather hot and bothered, a throbbing and wetness between her thighs further confirming that, yes, she had enjoyed the mere possibility of being intimate with Alexandria. This was not the first time she had dreamed in this manner, though it was perhaps the most distressing because a woman had been involved...a woman who just so happened to be her beau's dearest cousin.

"Yes?" she called.

The door opened a crack. "I heard strange noises whilst in my study. Are you quite well, Miss Griffin?"

Clarke was now mortified beyond compare. "Perfectly well, thank you," she rasped, silently praying the countess would not open the door further and see her disheveled state. Clarke did not suppose she could handle anymore embarrassment for the night.

After a lengthy pause the countess said, "If there's anything at all that you need, do not hesitate to ask."

Distracted by the ache in her loins, she only nodded.

"Miss Griffin?"

Clarke licked her lips. "I won't hesitate, countess," she said. "And I thank you for the concern, though it is unwarranted."

"You are my guest, Miss Griffin, your well being is my primary concern."

Once the footsteps had retreated, she put her hands on her flushed face, groaning. She had thought of Alexandria every day since first meeting her that fateful night, desperate to determine her identity and simply be in her presence again. Though she tried to deny it, she yearned for Alexandria's touch with the same intense passion that inspired her artwork. Clarke had never been so prolific in her life. Alexandria was her muse and Clarke never wanted that to change. She never wanted to be parted from her again.

She was in quite the predicament now. If she chose Alexandria, she would break Roan's heart and ruin the cousin's relationship forever. If she chose Roan, she would break her own heart. What on earth was she supposed to do?

* * *

In the morning, as she was grooming herself, her mother came to speak with her. It was not a wholly unusual occurrence, but given her disgraceful behaviour the previous night, she braced herself for the chastisement.

Clarke sat in front of the ornate mirror, brushing away while her mother stood behind her, staring.

She was quite taken aback when her mother said, "You do not have to accept Mr. Hawkins proposal if you do not desire to, Clarke."

Clarke stopped brushing and swiveled to face her mother. "How did you come to know about that?"

"Mr. Hawkins has been courting you for months, Clarke. It was a reasonable assumption given your...behaviour last night." Her mother smiled ever so slightly. "And I suppose his asking your father for his blessing shortly before we came here also helped my assessment of the situation."

"Oh," was all Clarke could think to say. She stared at her bare feet.

"You know my opinion of the man so I shan't say anything more on the matter."

Clarke looked over at her. "Yes, you have made it quite clear you don't approve even though he's been nothing but a gentleman. It makes me wonder if there is anyone you _would_ approve of."

 _Alexandria perhaps_? That would be quite the laugh. She would definitely know she were in the dreamworld if her mother gave her blessing to start a sapphic relationship.

Her mother moved nearer, placing her hands on either side of her face, kissing her forehead. "I only desire what is best for you. The mere fact that you hesitate to accept tells me that you do not wish to...has he finally told you more about his secret past?"

"Well, yes," she admitted.

"And?" her mother prompted, eyebrow raised.

"And it's nothing of consequence," she lied.

Her mother was a shrewd woman and could usually tell when she was being less than truthful. It was the main reason she hardly ever got away with her 'bad' behaviour.

"Clarke, if he has done something horrendous-"

She stood up, staring her mother down. "Frankly, mother, it's none of your business what Roan has or has not done."

Her mother glowered at her. "Do not speak to me so, daughter."

"I shall speak to you however I choose."

They remained in this unfriendly attitude for some time, until her ankle twinged and she felt compelled to sit down again. Clarke went back to brushing her ample amounts of hair, and her disgruntled mother left shortly thereafter.

* * *

Since there was plenty of room at the estate, the guests from Christmas Dinner were still present during breakfast. Clarke kissed her father on the cheek, ignoring her mother altogether. Then she sat beside Roan and picked up a piece of a cut orange. Fresh oranges in England. In the winter. Yet another indication of just how wealthy the countess was. This morning the woman was eating quietly while everyone around her rehashed the frivolity of the previous night. No one mentioned her disgraceful exist, though doubtless they had gossiped enough amongst themselves, noting on how it was typical low born behaviour.

She was conversing politely with Roan about nothing of consequence when there was a clanging for attention on glass. Everyone looked towards the source of the commotion, to find The Duke already on his feet. If this was to be yet another of his long winded speeches, Clarke would likely attempt to flee with all haste. Judging by the countesses rigid posture, she was just as unimpressed with the prospect as she was.

As if reading everyone's minds, The Duke chuckled lightly to himself and said, "I shan't hold your attention long." He looked to the countess who was discreetly clenching her jaw and then back towards everyone else. "I was forbidden from saying anything earlier, however, I find I cannot contain myself any longer. As you all well know, I have been infatuated with our hostess for quite some time," he beamed, "so it is with the greatest of pleasure that I announce our engagement!"

This announcement was met with utter silence for several seconds that felt more like eons to Clarke. Surely this was a joke? Or she was dreaming again? This couldn't possibly be real!

The nobles began congratulating the pair, and Clarke felt sick to her stomach. She glanced at Roan who appeared to be just as mystified as herself. "I don't understand," he muttered.

Clarke looked to Alexandria, willing her to make eye contact, but the tense woman was forcing herself to smile and accept the congratulations all around. Clarke wanted nothing more than to flee but she would not make a spectacle of herself again. Instead, she numbly took Roan's arm and moved to the head of the table to say the appropriate words. The countess stiffened further at their approach, eyes only briefly connecting. When she was closer, Clarke could see the rage at being disobeyed simmering just beneath the surface.

"I must say, cousin, this comes as quite the shock," said Roan with a frown.

"Yes, well, it is entirely true," she returned tight lipped. "The Duke and I are to wed in one months time."

"Would that it were tomorrow," lamented the foppish man, taking her hand and kissing it.

The urge to unleash hellfire on him was nearly overpowering. Clarke was quickly becoming light headed again like last night. Somewhat dazedly she gazed at the countess, wondering how she could have so completely misinterpreted their interactions. Where there really no signs to indicate Alexandria was attracted to her? Had she misunderstood her own attraction? Had she made everything up in her head?

There was only one way to know for sure, and since Clarke very much doubted the countess would outrightly tell her, she had to resort to an alternate method...that of breaking into the countesses study and reading her journal. Surely if there was anything about her in there, it would be very telling.

The only saving grace in this unbearable moment was that she did not faint after all, and indeed, managed to say a few kind words before going to sit back down and finish eating her breakfast as if her world were not fracturing around her.

* * *

The party planned to play Pinochle after a walk around the general vicinity of the estate, and Clarke used this time to her advantage. Feigning a headache, which was not far from the truth, she managed to be excluded from the proceedings.

To her surprise the study was unlocked. She hastened inside, closing the door behind her. At the countesses desk, however, lock picking _was_ required. Clarke did not have the faintest idea how to go about something like that. If there had been some sort of instantaneous way to communicate with Octavia, perhaps she would have been able to tell her. But such a notion was preposterous, so it was left up to her to figure it out. She looked on the desk for anything of use, but none of the objects were long and slender enough. It took some minutes of pondering before she had the bright idea to use her hair pins. But of course her hair was down and braided today, so none were within reach. Thankfully her bedroom was close at hand and it was a simple enough matter to dash along the hallway and back to the study. Still, the short excursion had caused her heart rate to accelerate and now that she was actually attempting to break into the countesses personal discourses, it would not slow down.

She inserted the pins and fiddled around, not expecting anything to happen, but then miraculously the lock clicked and the drawer popped open slightly. Stashing the pins atop the desk, she pulled the drawer out fully and found what she was looking for straight away. When she lifted the journal up, she found a stack of papers beneath it, bound together by string. The top of the stack read, _Allure and Consequence_ , and Clarke immediately realized this was Alexandria's novel. The temptation to read it was strong, but that was not why she was here. So she left it where it was and instead opened the journal and flipped through until she reached the date of their first meeting, September twenty-sixth. Skipping through the non-pertinent material, it read as follows:

 _I just had the most unusual meeting whilst out on a late night hunting excursion. There I was ready to take the shot when piercing screams broke the night. I am ashamed to say I debated even getting involved, but then I thought of my brother and his unerring courage, and knew I could not turn a blind eye. So I rode straight off towards where I estimated the source of the disturbance had come from, and lo and behold I located it! A number of evil looking brutes were assaulting two women! In that moment my heart froze, as I was vividly reminded of Roan's own unfortunate altercation. I had no idea how they might be armed, and unlike Roan, I was vastly outnumbered, for both women had fainted, or were otherwise knocked unconscious. Still, I found the courage to raise my rifle into the air and fire a warning shot. All four men's heads turned in my direction. At first they seemed frightened, but when they realized I was a woman, they only laughed amongst themselves and told me to 'piss off.'_

 _Rather irritated by their cavalier attitudes, not to mention their despicable actions, I then pointed my weapon at them in turn. I told them how I would not hesitate to put them down like the animals they were if they did not immediately release the women and flee. To make my point crystal clear, I shot off one of the men's hats, the one holding the blonde haired woman (whom I would later come to know as Clarke Griffin). He yelped in fright, and possibly even soiled himself, and let the girl fall unceremoniously to the ground. Seeing that I was deadly serious now, they finally acquiesced my command._

 _Once I was certain they were not returning, I dismounted my horse and went to attend the poor women. I held the lantern aloft as I beheld Miss Griffin's state. She appeared to be unharmed, for which I was glad. When I gazed upon her face, my heart froze anew. Her beauty was striking and left me breathless. She was serene and reposed, not unlike a princess straight out of a fairytale. Her hair, like soft spun gold, begged for my fingers to caress. Her rosy lips cried to be tasted._

 _But I am not a prince in shining armour, and I do not take advantage of vulnerable women, so I mastered myself and retrieved the smelling salts from my bag._

Clarke had to laugh at the abruptness of the change in tone. More than that though, her insides were squirming pleasantly. Just this one passage all but confirmed that Alexandria _was_ attracted to her, and far earlier than Clarke would have supposed. Technically, she had discovered what she came in here to discover, but now that she was here, she figured she might as well get the entire story. Scanning ahead, she periodically read passages that stood out to her.

... _Despite my best efforts,_ _I find myself thinking of her continuously since that fateful night. My thoughts, particularly the unworthy ones, are driving me to complete distraction. My soul cries for the dulcet sounds of her smile, her laugh. It would be ever so simple to call upon her tomorrow, but I see little point. Even on the off chance she were of the same persuasion as I am, my position does not afford me the luxury of such a dalliance, something I have already learned to my detriment..._

... _I wondered at Roan's sudden transformation into refinery. He had not cared to keep himself gentlemanly whilst on our travels, and indeed, this was a necessity for myself to remain incognito..._

 _...Roan has mentioned his utter infatuation with a charming girl dressed as a man he met at a fight club. I asked him if he were quite well in the head and he reassured me with a smirk that he was. When I inquired as to this unusual girl's name, he replied Clarke Griffin. I was momentarily stunned and could scarce believe my ears. Surely it was not the_ _same_ _Clarke Griffin that I had rescued? But how many women in London are named Clarke?_

 _...Roan seems quite intent on courting her, and I do not blame him. If I were free to do so, and she had desired me in any fashion, I surely would have attempted to soon after our first encounter..._

... _Hosting this confounded ball was vexing enough. Now I learn that Roan has invited_ _her_ _! Well of_ _course_ _he has! I should have long since prepared myself for our inevitable reunion, but I simply do not know how..._

October thirty-first

 _...she looked like a lion queen, ready to devour what was left of my heart. I have little clue as to how I kept my pent up emotion in check...I said I would attend them later, but I could not bring myself to be near her further, especially not whilst on the arm of my cousin...Naturally she found me, and got very near. I felt as though I should expire on the spot. Thankfully that dimwitted nincompoop, Rothenberg, started a kerfuffle and brought an end to our unbearable proximity. Unfortunately, the drunken fool then turned his sights on Clarke and laid violent hands on her. I was livid and ordered him to be taken away so that I may have a private chat. The temptation to dispatch of him was strong, but I mastered myself and only gave him a good tongue lashing..._

Clarke was impressed and saddened by the level of external control the countess had on her features. There had been little inkling of what laid beneath. She debated reading still further, the rest would surely be even harder to take. Curiousity trumped the pain of it and she turned the page.

... _Previously Roan informed me of her talented hands, and thusly I sent her a care package. It was only later I realized I signed it using my Christian name. I do not know what possessed me to do that. It was very inappropriate..._

 _...she has sent me a portrait of myself in my ball attire. It is fantastic! Roan was not exaggerating her prowess. I am far from stunned that she is so talented. I would showcase this masterpiece to the world but I am selfish. I want it all to myself. So I will hang it in my bedroom so that I may look upon it every morning and every night...it is the only means by which I dare be close to her..._

 _...Roan has come to bother me about the upcoming holiday season...I feared he may wish to do something like this. It will be very trying on my nerves to see her once more, no doubt more gorgeous than ever, but I shall endeavour to do my best. Roan seems to think I am regressing again into my drunken ways...and he is correct, I_ _am_ _, and_ _he_ _is the one to blame!...That is not quite fair of me...I should have told him right from the beginning that it would trouble me if he courted her, but how could I deny him happiness after so much strife?_

Clarke had to pause after reading that last passage. This story of woe was also trying on her own nerves for a number of reasons. At the moment though, she was absorbed with that last sentence. It very much sounded as though Roan was aware of Alexandria's prediliction for women. That would explain why he seemed just as shocked as she was at the engagement announcement. Clarke supposed it was hard to spend nearly three years with someone and not get to know their darkest secrets.

With a sigh, she commenced anew _:_

 _...the day of their arrival draws nearer, and with it, a greater urge to flee, to head into the mountains and never return...Roan has informed me of his intent to propose to her whilst here. God have mercy on my soul..._

December Eighteenth and onwards

 _...she complimented my figure today...I think...I am not entirely sure._

 _...I've noticed her staring at me on more than one occasion. However, I do not know if that signifies anything of consequence...or if I should even_ _hope_ _that it does..._

 _...couldn't help myself while we were skating. It was so unfair that Roan should have her all to himself, so I rectified the issue, at least temporarily. She seemed to enjoy herself tremendously as we skated circles around him, but that could well be the entire reason..._

 _...it was all I could do not to laugh in Roan's irritated face today as I stole his tree chopping glory and secured yet another wide eyed stare from Clarke. Perhaps she just thinks I am the strangest woman she has ever met?_

 _...no one ever lets me put candles in the tree!...he embarrassed me in front of her...in retaliation, I had the kitchen staff figure out how to make popped corn. I was beyond pleased with myself when Clarke fairly well shoved her face in the bowl..._

Clarke blushed again at the memory of her shameful conduct, but also because Alexandria took such pleasure from her bad behaviour.

 _Her intelligence and wit are just as radiant as her beauty...she shines as brightly as the star atop the tree, bringing joy to all those that see...She reminds me of Costia..._

 _...she is not only a remarkable painter, but chess player. I have rarely come across someone as strategic as she, and terrible as it is to say, a_ _woman_ _...we shared a beautiful moment afterwards. Unfortunately it was ruined by the sheer proximity of my other guests. I took the opportunity to excuse myself, before I did something incredibly stupid, like bow or intone a romantic poem..._

 _...Clarke wore men's attire today. It fit her quite snugly. Her golden locks were down too. Let us just say that I was more than a little aroused by the sight. I could barely focus on our intercourse about women's rights...thoroughly ashamed of myself...and then she asked about my novel and I couldn't possibly talk to her about that, so I lied and said I hadn't completed much of it. When that failed to produce the desired effect, I firmly cut off all discourse, though it pained me to cease her lovely voice...She missed on purpose, I am sure of it. Her heart is too gentle and unsullied by the cruelties of this world...unlike myself...I had quite the fright when she tumbled down that hill. Thankfully she appeared largely unscathed...My fingers were trembling something fierce as I unlaced her boot and touched her bare foot. Clarke gasped at the contact, and I assumed it was due to the sensitive nature of her injury. Now I am not so sure...we shared another moment once she was in my arms...and again when I stupidly dropped her. I cannot believe I stroked her hair!...I am afraid I have given myself away completely..._

 _...I went for a ride to clear my head and ended up in town. Inevitably, my feet led me back to what was once Costia's home. There is a new family living there now and they appeared to be very happy...I was ashamed of nearly forgetting to make my donation to the orphanage this year. It's been too long since I was last here. The children only wanted to play, so I obliged them, though I was hardly in the mood. Some are still here from three years ago. It is heartwrenching to see them so unloved...sometimes I think of adopting all of them. There is plenty of room at my estate..._

 _...she came to my study last night. For a moment I thought I was dreaming when I found her in my arms again. I did not want to let go, but somehow I did. The tension was suffocating and I didn't know how to be around her, so I pretended to be furiously writing in here...we somehow always talk about the dead, and I cannot stand it, not when she is so full of life still...I was furious with myself for paining her...I was shocked when she stroked my hair. Perhaps she did it in jest...perhaps not? She remains unperturbed by my increasingly obvious attraction to her. Does this signify anything? Or is she simply the non-judgemental sort? Or is she biding her time for Roan's sake until she can leave the estate and never return?_

 _...After embarrassing me in front of her once again during charades, I had planned to outstrip Roan by an embarrassing amount on the snow, but due to Clarke's injury, that was not a feasible plan. Thankfully Roan supplied the perfect alternative for exacting my revenge...perhaps I became a little carried away, but she was watching and I found I couldn't stop myself...Titus was perceptive as always...with his guidance I have begun to remember my place. I must stop attempting to sabotage Roan's courtship. I am grieved that I even tried to knowing how much she means to him..._

 _...I am very distressed at the moment. What I have long since feared has come to pass. Roan has proposed to Clarke, and I had the misfortune to witness it! I could scarce breathe, let alone flee..._

 _'I thought once how Theocritus had sung_

 _Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,_

 _Who each one in a gracious hand appears_

 _To bear a gift for mortals old or young:_

 _And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,_

 _I saw in gradual vision through my tears_

 _The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years -_

 _Those of my own life, who by turns had flung_

 _A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,_

 _So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move_

 _Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;_

 _And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,_

 _"Guess now who holds thee?" -"Death," I said. But there_

 _The silver answer rang -"Not Death, but Love."'_

Clarke took a moment to breathe deeply, to attempt to quell the rapidity of her heart and the trembling of her fingers. She was about to turn the page when she became cognizant of the fact that she was being watched. Arms crossed over his chest, Roan looked at her in surprise and disappointment, and she snapped the journal shut right away and pushed back from the desk.

"Roan," she began awkwardly, voice likewise trembling as her body. "I was only...that is to say-"

"I suppose this means your headache has passed," he said in a queer voice, staring at her like it was the first time he was truly seeing her.

Arms falling to his sides, he stepped further into the study, careful to avoid the flame of the ever burning candles scattered throughout. He never once looked at the journal. Clearly he knew full well what she was doing in here without paying it any attention.

He came to stand directly before her, the better to study her. Clarke swallowed hard, her senses already teetering on the verge of distress. Her body wanted to back away, her mind told her to stay put.

"They say love blinds you to the truth," he continued, still in that odd, strangled voice. "It must be true. It explains why I couldn't see what was happening right in front of my own eyes." He clenched a fist. "You have feelings for Alexandria. Do you deny it?"

She glanced away, unable to maintain the intensity of his gaze. "Roan, I-"

"Do you deny it?"

"No," she said in a small voice that coursed like lightning between them. Perversely, voicing her attraction aloud gave her a modicum of relief.

"And this is why you have refused me?"

"I haven't refused you Roan," she defended, knowing the words were false as soon as she opened her mouth.

"But you were planning to," he challenged. "You just didn't know how. I understand. It must be difficult to refuse one cousin for the other."

"I didn't ask to feel this way!" she countered heatedly. "This wasn't planned!" She took his unclenched fist in her hand. "I am truly sorry that it has come to this. Know that I never meant to hurt you."

"I'm not so sure that's true," he replied a bit bitterly, taking his hand away. "You told me at the ball that you had met her prior to that evening. Precisely _when_ was that?"

"It was before I met you," she reluctantly admitted, "but-"

"I've seen your sketchbook, Clarke," he persisted. "It's filled with drawings of her. You had feelings for her even before we met."

"All right, yes, I did!" she exclaimed. "But I didn't understand _what_ I felt! I thought I just admired her! How could I not? She rescued me after all!"

"Rescued you?" he frowned, for once not ahead of the curve. "Rescued you how?"

"Suffice it to say, Octavia and I got into a spot of trouble one night, and the countess saved us."

"So you've been infatuated with her ever since, and yet you let me court you..." his voice trembled with emotion, "let me fall in love with you."

Her heart hammered at the words never spoken before, but felt in every action. "Roan..."

"I never thought you would be the sort of person to do something like this, Clarke. I never thought you were so thoughtless and cruel." His misty gaze moved away from hers and towards the open desk drawer. He frowned and then went wide eyed.

"What was the exact date? The night you met Alexandria?"

"September twenty-six," she said, confused as to why this mattered so much to him.

He chuckled lightly and rubbed at his face in a weary manner. "Of course." He sighed, running his hands through his hair. "She started writing her novel a few days later. You inspired her. Just as she has inspired you. You are each others muses." He chuckled again, though it sounded more like a sob. "It's really quite amusing."

Clarke was at a loss for words and felt particularly bad for wanting nothing more than to sit down and read said novel right now.

"It's a pity she's gone and gotten herself engaged. Though I suppose it makes perfect sense now."

"It does?" she wondered aloud. "How?"

"Ask her about Costia," he said after a moment, as if he weren't entirely sure he should meddle.

She recalled that name coming up a few times during her perusal of Alexandria's journal. From the little she had read, it didn't sound like that relationship had gone well.

"She's broken, Clarke," he continued. "She hides it well, but she is. And I don't know if even you can fix her." He bowed, mocking her. "Know that I wish you the best of luck though."

He turned to leave and she grabbed his arm from behind, stilling him. "I really am sorry."

Roan said nothing - though she could feel the sadness and hurt rolling off of him in waves - and then vacated the room.

* * *

 **Had to throw in a (gay) poem or something. Lexa's so extra she definitely would've had stuff like that in her journal. Tried to go with Sappho herself (lol) but it didn't quite work out. Oh and the sonnet is by Elizabeth Browning cuz Lexa would definitely read (and have access to) all of the female poets/authors of the time.**

 **Anyway, hope the journal stuff wasn't too boring. It kinda dragged on there, but I thought this was necessary for the story, to get a somewhat different perspective.**

 **Jackson and Lexa. Who ever would've thunk? O_o**

 **Ah, poor Roan. Feel bad for the fella. But someone was always gonna get screwed over and I think we all knew it wasn't gonna be Lexa.**


	8. Chapter 8

Clarke waited for hours in Alexandria's study. While she waited, she alternated between feeling horrible about what she did to Roan, and reading Alexandria's novel - which also produced some guilt, but not to nearly the same extent. Within the first few pages, it's clear he was right. She inspired this work, the novel is about her. It's a sort of alternate perspective in which women can openly be who they really are, contribute their real worth, and be with whom they want to be with without consequence. There are some major differences of course, but ultimately the heroine of the story, the soldier, is obviously Alexandria, and the woman she is pursuing, the doctor, is obviously herself. It's no wonder she never wanted to discuss it with Roan or herself.

Courtly manners transform rather quickly into clear and scandalous flirtation, and within the first ten chapters, the two women are already falling into bed together. By Victorian standards, the description is fairly vivid, and paired with her own recent dream, and lack of first hand knowledge, Clarke is finding herself becoming quite immersed and aroused. Alexandria either has a remarkable imagination, or she was writing from her own experiences. Perhaps a bit of both. The thought of them acting out these roles was both quite silly and quite alluring.

She was nearing the end of the epic tale, in which the doctor successfully performed surgery on the soldier after a bullet that had gone astray hit her during the final battle for independence. The women were tearfully embracing one another when Alexandria, the real one, finally made an appearance. Clarke was immediately on alert and incredibly anxious about the ensuing confrontation. It didn't help that the story had made her rather emotional.

Alexandria looked at her and what was in her hands and then closed the door behind her. She stood there, facing the door, slightly longer than was necessary, as if taking a moment to compose herself. Then she turned around and walked over to the other side of the desk, hands behind her back, apparently completely unperturbed. But Clarke knew she was a master of deception, so there may very well have been oceans of emotion behind those green depths.

"Does privacy mean nothing to you, Miss Griffin?" Her voice was as calm as her apparent manner. It was almost unsettling. If Clarke had found someone perusing her most private thoughts, she would have been furious. "You are my guest, yes, but that does not grant you the right to snoop through my things."

Clarke likewise stood up to face her head on. "Forgive me, countess, but I needed to know the truth."

"And what truth would that be?" she asked, pretending to play dumb.

"The truth of your feelings for me, Alexandria," said Clarke making sure to hold direct eye contact as she spoke.

At the utterance of her name, the countess held herself a little more rigidly. It was easy to see how she would see herself as a soldier. She knew how ride and shoot and hold herself like one quite well.

"And what was your assessment?" she inquired, as if they were discussing the weather and not a taboo romance.

Clarke moved around the desk to stand directly in front of Alexandria, in a similar attitude to that of herself and Roan. The countess stiffened still further.

"Why did you agree to marry the duke?"

"One can only stay a bachelorette for so long, Miss Griffin, especially when one is as desirable as myself," she replied simply, irritating Clarke. Clarke supposed by 'desirable', Alexandria meant, 'wealthy'.

Clarke just continued to give her a pointed look. "It is my duty to produce an heir," the countess eventually added. "Marriage is the only acceptable means by which to accomplish this goal."

Clarke wondered if Alexandria was implying not only that they could never marry should they pursue a relationship, but no children could be had from such an arrangement. Therefore it would be foolish to attempt one.

"While I do understand why you think such a thing is important, we both know that's not the whole truth, Alexandria. There is more to this story than you are letting on." Clarke hesitated only a moment before saying, "What happened with Costia? Why are you _really_ doing this?"

Alexandria visibly flinched at the mention of the other woman, meaning Roan was likely on to something when he suggested her.

"You have been busy," she said, nostrils flaring, a bit of an edge to her voice. "My novel _and_ my journal. You are an accomplished reader, Miss Griffin."

"What happened with Costia?" Clarke persisted, wondering if the countess held her arms behind her back as a way to keep herself from strangling her.

"Costia was a mistake. I paid heavily for that mistake. That is all you deserve to know of the matter." She turned her back on Clarke, effectively dissuading further intercourse on the subject. Clarke could see now precisely how tightly the countess was gripping her forearms. If she were more cautious, she would relent and leave. But Clarke could not in good faith turn back now.

"Do not do this, Alexandria, do not keep your emotions hidden from me. I _know_ how you truly feel."

"You know nothing, Miss Griffin."

"So you are not in love with me?" Clarke said a bit heatedly, moving before her once more.

A storm was brewing in Alexandria's eyes. Someone with more sense would have quailed and evacuated the area.

The countess ground her jaw down and then in still steelier tones said, "All right, Miss Griffin, I shall tell you what happened to Costia. It's quite simple really. She was a country girl far beneath my station, and all the more alluring because of it. I was young and foolish and allowed my feelings to dictate my actions. We were intimate a number of times and then she accepted a proposal from a recent acquaintance. A year later she died during childbirth."

"That is terrible," said Clarke. "I am truly sorry." She placed a hand on her arm, but quickly retracted it when she felt how uncomfortable it was making Alexandria. "Costia's actions clearly hurt you a great deal, and-

"Costia had the right idea of the matter. I only wish she had come to her senses earlier than I."

"How can you say that, Alexandria?"

The countess continued to stare at her in that unblinking, unnerving manner. "They all died for my sins. Costia, my mother, my father..." her lip trembled, "my brother. They died because I was weak and succumbed to temptation."

"What are you saying? That God killed all of them because you laid with a woman?" Alexandria only dipped her head in reply. "God is not cruel!" she exclaimed, aghast. "He is merciful! He does not wish for you to suffer! He did not smite them because of who you loved!"

"God _is_ cruel," insisted Alexandria. "He must be. It is the only way we will stay on the path of righteousness. Only those of sincere repentance shall achieve salvation with our Lord when He deems it our time to leave this world."

Alexandria had barely spoken of religion during her stay here. It seemed strange that she was now referring to it as the cause of her recent action.

"You speak, but it is not you who are speaking," said Clarke, understanding. "Titus speaks for you. He's poisoned your mind."

"You hardly know me, Miss Griffin," said Alexandria, ever the unbending statue. "You can hardly judge what is in my mind."

"I _do_ know you!" cried Clarke. She placed a hand to Alexandria's chest. "I know what lies within your heart! You are not this person," she continued, raising her hand to hold the side of her face, "for she could not write such a beautiful love story! She could not be so full of hope for a better future! She could not inspire me! She could not make me feel what I feel for you! I did not know it then but you stole my heart the day you rescued me! This constant need to depict you on paper, I thought it was to understand _you_ better! But it was to understand _myself_ better!"

It seemed as though Clarke was finally making progress, finally making Alexandria see how stupid she was being, how misguided her intentions to protect her were, if indeed that were even her intent. But alas, it was not to be.

"Your feelings are wasted," said Alexandria, gazing at her steadfast, "I am not that person any longer."

She removed Clarke's hand from her face, leaned sideways and picked up the novel. Then she turned on her heel and tossed it into the fireplace. There was just enough heat left from the morning fire to begin charring the pages.

"No!" screamed Clarke, attempting to dash towards it, to salvage what was left of their relationship.

Alexandria grabbed a hold of her, pulled her into a lovers embrace - though love was the last feeling imbued on her senses - and whispered, "It is better this way. You will forget about me in time. Roan has left the estate, just as you must. You must then settle down with a nice young gentleman and start a family the way you are meant to."

Clarke broke out of her embrace and snarled, "There _was_ a nice young man! He was my best friend! I thought I would marry him one day! Then he was gone, without rhyme or reason! Tell me what I did to deserve his death?! If that is what I was _meant_ to do?!"

Completely unmoved, Alexandria said, "We like to think we are all Kings and Queens, but really we are nothing more than pawns. You cannot control destiny, Clarke."

Clarke had waited for her to say her Christian name for ages. However, the moment was for all intents and purposes ruined and she wished Alexandria had never uttered her name at all.

"You are either meant to be with someone or you are not. If you are, not even death can keep you apart for long."

So saying, she attempted to move past Clarke, but Clarke barred her path in one last desperate attempt to make her see reason. She grabbed the collar of her fur lined coat. "Please, Alexandria," she begged, the tears freely flowing now, "please do not do this! Will you deny your own senses?! You have felt our connection, I know you have! You cannot marry the duke, you do not love him! You will be miserable for the rest of your life! Haven't you suffered enough?!"

"I shall have your families things collected and a carriage brought round directly," the countess said firmly, moving out of her grasp. "There is an inn along the way to the city if you do not wish to sleep in the carriage. Simply mention my name and they will attend you free of charge." She stared at Clarke a long moment, as if memorizing her features. Under different circumstances, the scrutiny would have been welcomed. As it was, she was very near to slapping Alexandria most ardently across the face. "Goodbye, Clarke," she said so softly that Clarke did not have the heart for such violence, and instead collapsed into the nearest chair and sobbed.

* * *

When next he saw his daughter, she threw herself into his arms and commenced sobbing with fervour. Mr. Griffin was bewildered by their abrupt dismissal from the estate. He only knew that something had gone terribly awry between his daughter and Mr. Hawkins, who had recently given him a swift, detached goodbye before disappearing on horseback. He looked to his wife, who gave him such a look as to suggest she knew the cause of their discord and would explain the details at a later date. For the moment he would hold his suffering child and impart as much love and support as he possibly could in the simple act.

Once they were home, Mrs. Griffin informed him of Mr. Hawkins troubled past, and though she did not know the particulars, she was quite sure that was the reason for their falling out. Out of familial loyalty, the countess had expulsed them from her estate. He wondered why she had not told him sooner of the possible defects of Mr. Hawkins character. She replied that their daughter had wished for them to give him the benefit of the doubt, and let his current actions dictate his character, rather than his past ones, which perhaps were not even as bad as they were implied to be. Clearly they had been, and every day Mr. Griffin felt more and more foolish for being so taken in by the charming fellow.

His dearest and only daughter remained in her bedroom for four days on end, an occasional sob making its way down to his workshop or study. Mr. Griffin was nearly as distressed as his child. The last time she had been so distraught, her childhood friend had tragically perished. He too had lost a dear friend as a boy, so he knew the pain associated with such a loss. As to losing ones romantic love - for he believed his daughter must have truly loved Mr. Hawkins to be so inconsolable - that was not a sensation he was associated with. The only woman he had ever truly loved, he had married straight away, and by God's will, she had stayed with him all these years.

The longer his daughter suffered, the more his ire and resentment against Mr. Hawkins grew, and the less he cared about preserving any kind of relationship in future. So it was that on New Years Eve, he resolved to go locate Mr. Hawkins and give him a severe dressing down. Unfortunately, just as he was about to leave, Mrs. Griffin found him out and told him not to be a fool.

"If you think to challenge him to a duel and get yourself killed, you have another think coming*, husband. Now go put on your suit, and brush your hair, The Eastons are expecting us shortly."

* * *

As she had done every day since their unexpected return, Octavia came to sit with her friend and simply hold her. Clarke was equal parts grateful for the comfort and irritated by it. More than anything she wished to be left alone, to drown in her sorrows without an audience.

"Do you not have a party to attend?" she inquired a bit grumpily of her friend. "It is New Years Eve after all. Your husband will be missing your lips when the clock strikes midnight."

"I think it fitting I should celebrate it with you this year, Clarke," replied Octavia, as she stroked her back. "Lincoln and his family have had Christmas. You and I shall have New Years together. As to my lips, my husband has had quite enough of them in the past month."

Her friend hesitated to say something else that was on her mind, and Octavia never hesitated in such a manner, so Clarke immediately knew it must be something of great interest.

"What are you not telling me?"

"Am I that obvious?" said Octavia, a little uncomfortably.

"Indeed you are, to me at any rate."

"Ah well, then I suppose I have no choice but to tell you now." She repositioned herself so as to better face Clarke. "I am with child," she breathed out slowly.

"Why, that's marvelous news!" she exclaimed, embracing her friend fiercely. "I am so very happy for you both!" She pulled back. "Why did you think it necessary to keep this from me?"

Octavia fidgeted with the hem of the blankets, avoiding her gaze. "I did not think it right to impart this knowledge considering your current...state."

"I am not a delicate flower, Octavia," she said gruffly. "I will not wilt at the least sign of someone else's happiness." Octavia didn't respond and Clarke was unsure whether it was due to not wishing to argue with her, or whether it was something else altogether. "You _are_ happy, are you not?"

"Oh, yes, of course I am, Clarke," said Octavia with a genuine smile that could light the dark. She took her hands. "I am so decidedly happy. Lincoln shall make a wonderful father."

"I dare say you shall make a wonderful mother too, provided you refrain from letting the child run amok like her willful mother."

Clarke smirked, but Octavia seemed uncomfortable again. She squeezed her hands. "Clarke, there is something else...Lincoln's investment of the fight club money has been doing well, and you know I have never much liked it here...so we have been discussing the prospect of moving out of the city and starting our family on a farm."

"Oh," was all Clarke could think to say, her chest constricting painfully. Was everyone determined to leave her?

Octavia squeezed her hands back. "It is far from certain this will come to pass," she said a little hastily, "and if it should, I do not see why that should bring an end to our friendship." She held her face in her hands, making Clarke look at her. "You know how dear you are to me. I would make every attempt to visit during the off season. Or since you have always longed for country living too, you could always come visit us. You would always be welcome there. Always."

Her friend seemed quite relieved to get that pertinent information off her chest, so Clarke willed herself to conjure a smile and say, "Then I shall always come when you call. Always."

They smiled at one another and Octavia hugged her again, and then she suggested they get out of bed and go celebrate the New Year. It was a rather pathetic affair, but they were together, and Clarke was unspeakably grateful to have Octavia in her life. The alcohol she consumed was making her even more grateful, and they waltzed and jigged around the parlour room, laughing, much to the disapproval of the servants, until they were exhausted. When the clock struck midnight, she kissed Octavia on either cheek and then grasped her hand and pulled her back into bed with her.

"I have a confession to make to you too," she said seriously, as they cuddled up to one another, nearly forehead to forehead. "Roan is not the reason I have been so out of sorts." Clarke whispered, "His cousin is."

Octavia had imbibed just as much as she, and she grinned at her in a dopey, sleepy fashion. "The countess?" giggled she. She squeezed her cheek. "What on earth did the scary woman do to you, Clarkey?"

"Broke my heart I'm afraid," replied Clarke dramatically.

Octavia giggled some more and then said, "That's very amusing. You are amusing."

"It's not a joke, Oca...Otca...O," she slurred. "I'm perfectly serious. I fell in love with her and she rejected me."

Octavia observed her serenely for a time, playing with her hair. "Well, she is a fool then, countess or no."

"You take no issue with this revelation?" Clarke wondered in wonderment.

"Why should I?" replied Octavia with a shrug. She kissed her forehead. "You are still my Clarkey-kins, are you not?"

Clarke was so overcome with the unconditional love and acceptance of her friend that she burst into tears. Octavia wrapped her up in a warm embrace, stroking her back once more. "No more tears, Clarkey, no more tears. Let us go to sleep and dream sweet dreams. All will seem better in the morning."

Octavia however was quite mistaken. All was most certainly not right come morning. Both girls skulls pounded with the force of a thousand hammer strikes, however, Octavia had it decidedly worse, and was exceedingly sick into the chamber pot for almost an hour. Once the nausea had dissipated somewhat and she had reclaimed her wits, she looked over at Clarke and just stared in a similar fashion to that of Roan upon discovering her reading Alexandria's journal.

Clarke's own stomach churned uncomfortably and she reckoned she would soon be ill as well, but not from the alcohol consumption. She had little doubt that Octavia had just recalled her confession of the previous night, something Clarke hoped would not happen once she too had remembered this morning.

"You're in love with the countess?" she queried without ceremony.

Clarke's blood picked up its pace so as to be in sync with that of the hammer hits. She took a deep breath, tried to say something, and then closed her desert dry mouth again. She settled for the tiniest of nods.

Octavia continued to stare at her. "I suppose that explains your obsession." She chuckled lightly. "In this new light, I can see that it's exceedingly obvious how you felt about her. I am more surprised at myself for not recognizing the symptoms of love earlier."

She swallowed, licked her lips. "You aren't disgusted that I should love a woman?" Clarke glanced away staring at the floor. "Such an attraction is wholly unnatural and should be discouraged." Clarke frowned, angry at herself for reiterating the kind of sentiment Titus shared.

Octavia came nearer and took her face in her hands again. "I lived on a farm for most of my life, Clarke. The animals did all number of supposedly unnatural things. Yet, they are more a part of nature than humankind can ever hope to be. Should we not judge ourselves by the same standards as the other creatures of God's creation? Why should we be separate and above if He loves us all?"

Perversely, the more Octavia tried to reassure her that her feelings were just, the more she seemed to be following along the same lines of reasoning as Alexandria and Titus. "We were given dominion over the animals, Octavia. We _are_ separate and above. That is why we are in His image. That is why we are held to higher standards of conduct."

"Why should God give you such desires if He did not want you to express them?" persisted Octavia.

"To test my resolve. To learn if I am worthy of Him."

"Then why are only _some_ afflicted with such desires? Should not we all be similarly afflicted if we are all created equally and in His image?"

"Many would say I am defective," muttered Clarke, eyes tearing.

"Poppycock," Octavia said defiantly, swiping a thumb across her cheek. "God does not make mistakes." She smiled softly. "You are just as you are supposed to be."

Clarke gave her a grateful smile and hugged her truest ally in all the world. The doubts of the past four days began to recede, but it was a slow process to fully accept herself for who she was, and so it was that weeks past before she could even contemplate the prospect of her feelings for Alexandria again without any amount of scorn.

* * *

As she was out for a pleasant stroll with Octavia along their favourite country path one afternoon, a man in the distance waved at them. Clarke balked at his approach, wanting nothing more than to turn around and flee. However, she did no such thing and simply waited impatiently for him to come nearer, her nerves alight and on edge. Roan took off his bowler** and greeted them formally. He had allowed his beard to grow back in some measure, nothing like when they had first met, but far less gentlemanly than all the time of their courtship. In all honesty, she almost preferred this rugged look to that of impeccably kept chins. The lines in his face spoke of a profound weariness and she wondered if he had been getting just as little sleep as herself, or if her rejection had served to age him a noticeable amount. She shuddered to think such a thing, which he mistook for being chilly and offered his outer coat. She declined the offer and looked to Octavia, who took the hint and moved off some distance to stand by a tree.

They awkwardly conversed for some minutes, none of their old familiarity making itself known. Then without prompting he said, "She is getting married in a few days time."

"Yes, I am aware of that," replied Clarke stiffly. There was little point pretending she did not know of who he spoke. And she could hardly have been unaware of the upcoming nuptials considering the city was abuzz with such talk. Alexandria was one of the wealthiest persons in England. The Duke was one of the noblest. Their union would be the spectacle of the year, though it had only just begun.

"What do you intend to do about it?" he demanded, not unkindly.

"Why should I intend to do anything about it?" she huffed, kicking at some snow.

"She won't listen to me."

"She won't listen to me either."

"You must try again."

"Must I?" she said a little shrilly, embarrassed at sounding like her mother. "I do not see that I must. She made her choice. Just as I did." Clarke's gaze fluttered away from his, the awkwardness of their situation making itself apparent once more.

"You are being just as stubborn as she. You will both regret this decision. I am sure of it."

"And what makes you so sure?"

"You love her, do you not?" He caught her eye for a bit, and she saw the barely concealed pain there before she glanced downwards again. Clarke nodded almost imperceptibly. "She loves you too."

"She has a strange way of showing her affection."

"Intimacy has not been easy for her since Costia. She's afraid of losing you too."

"Why are you so determined to see us together?" she honestly wondered.

"I love her like a sister. I only wish for her to be happy. You can provide that for her once again."

"Should it be known, our relationship would provide nothing but derision from her peers and England as a whole. She would be unceremoniously flung out of polite society. We both would."

"Are you implying that she is not worth the risk of such censure?"

Clarke worried her lip, a great anxiety pressing against her chest. "I am not sure my heart is strong enough for another refusal."

"If she refuses you a second time, I will be very surprised." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Will you go to her again?"

It would be just as difficult to turn her back on Alexandria forever, as it would be to face her again. She knew Roan was right. She would regret never knowing for sure if Alexandria was willing to take a chance on _her_.

With a deep breath she sighed, "I will."

He didn't exactly smile, though he seemed pleased all the same. Roan reached into his breast pocket, pulled out two tickets and offered them to her. After a few seconds of examination she saw that they were boat tickets...to Paris. The date of departure was two days from now, or the day before the wedding. She looked back at him, mouth slightly parted.

"In case you had said yes," he grimaced, though she assumed he thought he was smiling.

"Roan, I-"

He shook his head. "Let's not get into that again."

"I cannot accept these..."

He furled her gloved fingers around the tickets. "Take them. I have a feeling you will be needing them."

Roan stood back and they only observed each other silently for a time. If she had never met Alexandria, she was sure to have married him, and she wouldn't have regretted the decision. But Alexandria had seeped through her skin and settled into her very bones. She could no more part with her than she could fly.

"What will you do?" she asked after she stashed the tickets into her bosom.

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Might stay in England for some time yet. Or maybe I will head back out on the road." He smirked, and it was much more genuine this time. "I have gotten pretty good at being an adventurer, if I do say so myself. Perhaps I will make it a full time occupation and document my travels better so that others may benefit from my excursions."

"Well, whatever you decide to do, I wish you the best of luck."

She held out her hand, but not so that he could kiss it. He seemed to understand and grasped her hand as if she were a man. "And I too wish you the best of luck, Clarke...sincerely this time," he added in his usual playful tones. She was glad that he seemed to be healing the scars that she had made. She hoped to never inflict that kind of pain on anyone else for as long as she lived.

Roan put his hat back on and tipped it towards her before continuing down the snow covered path and out of sight.

* * *

Her parents would never understand or approve of this relationship, so she decided not to inform them of the real reason for her departure. Instead, she had told them she was planning to stay with The Sterlings for a few days. No matter what Roan said, she felt there was the very real possibility that Alexandria would reject her again, and if that should come to pass, there was no reason her parents should know of this final attempt at following her hearts path.

The Sterlings were there to see her off early the next morning at the outskirts of town. She surprised Lincoln with a hug, the first she had ever given him, and ended with a rather longer one with Octavia. If everything went according to plan, she did not think she would be back here for some time, in which case, Octavia was to give her parents a letter explaining the situation. She could hear her mothers shrieks of despair loud and clear, and the thought perversely made her heart a little lighter, and almost eager to be on the road.

She shared one last teary eyed look with Octavia before ascending the snow white horse and nudging her onward, towards destiny.

* * *

 ***This was the original phrase and when you think about it, it actually makes a lot more sense than saying 'thing'**

 ****I wanted to give him a homburg (like in Murdoch Mysteries) but they didn't exist yet, so I was stuck with a stupid bowler, cuz only assholes wear top hats during their day to day business, and I think I've established beyond a shadow of a doubt that Roan's the farthest thing from an asshole. And yeah I suppose there were other less stupid hats I could've used but then I couldn't have left this pointless note.  
**

 **Another note: so there was some historical awareness of alcohol being a no-no during pregnancy, even some stuff in the Bible. However, there wasn't much awareness from the medical community and general population until a paper was published in 1973 describing FAL (fetal alcohol syndrome). So give O a break.  
**

 **Anyway, I originally thought this was going to be the final chapter but now it obviously isn't...and I'm not even sure if the next one will be the final chapter either, so what I'm saying is, I am really bad at planning and estimating things and my fics always go on for longer than I thought they would, so yay for you guys I guess.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Come to me now again, release me from**  
 **this pain, everything my spirit longs**  
 **to have fulfilled, fulfill, and you**  
 **be my ally - Sappho**

* * *

Clarke was alive and burning with purpose, and definitely in no mood to slow down or stop all together. However, her horse could only maintain the somewhat vicious pace she had set for her for so long, and descending from her saddle and seeing how exhausted Violet was, Clarke managed to feel remorseful. She felt especially badly knowing she would have pushed Violet still further if the terrain had been more agreeable or if they had been close to the estate. As it was, there was still half a days journey before her, and she was very fortuitous to not have been thrown a number of times during her mad dash to Alexandria.

She fed Violet an apple to atone for such negligence, hoping for forgiveness. Violet was a loyal creature when treated well but rather prickly when not; not unlike many humans.

"I'm sorry, Violet, truly," she said, hand to her snout. Violet huffed, then nudged her hands, as if simultaneously forgiving her and demanding more food. Clarke smiled and patted the side of her neck while she fed her her own apple. It seemed like an easy sacrifice to make as she was far too anxious to even consider eating herself, besides which, she would not be getting much farther without Violet's assistance.

After an hour or so of rest - in which Clarke was very thankful it was not particularly freezing today - they continued onwards. While moving much slower was not her ideal, it was in some respects better, as it afforded her the use of her hood, something that continuously blew from her head as she earlier galloped along. Still, by the time she reached the town a handful of miles away from Alexandria's estate, the sun had set and she was nearly frozen solid. She was also fairly well starving, so she brought Violet into the stables to be looked after while she went into the nearest pub to warm herself and gain nourishment for the possible trials ahead.

People turned to look at her as she pulled back her hood and made her way to the barkeep. The reason for their interest was threefold. In her haste to leave that morning, her hair had not been done up one iota and as such, it was wild and untamed. She was attired in men's clothing, so as to sit atop the saddle like a man and ride as fast as she dared. It was also a small village, so any strangers stuck out like a sore thumb, which coincidentally she literally had from rubbing against the reins for so long. She flexed her cold and cramped hands as she waited for the man to acknowledge her existence.

When he finally did, he gave her a funny look, as if wearing trousers was unspeakably distasteful. She half thought he would refuse her service but then she placed money on the counter and ordered herself some tea and soup, anything to help her warm up a little faster. As expected, he decided not to turn down the money and went to prepare her order. As it was being readied, she went to stand by the roaring fire. Apparently her appearance was sufficiently strange that no one dared bother her while she stood there, nor later while she scarfed down her bread and soup.

Reinvigorated, she reclaimed her horse (to the surprise of the stableboy) and headed back onto the main road. She glanced at the houses as she passed by, wondering which one was Costia's former home, wondering if Alexandria had ever visited her publicly, or how that relationship even came to pass. Then again, their own story was far more bizarre, so really it wasn't that hard to fathom.

She did not like travelling at nighttime, especially _alone_ , but there was nothing for it. There was no way on God's (not so) green Earth that she would wait to see Alexandria in the morning. Besides, it was only just after dinner time. She would arrive at the estate in a couple of hours, so Clarke doubted very much that she would be disturbing her. At least in _that_ regard.

The closer she became to the estate grounds, the more she began to doubt herself, and whether she really had the right to come here like this after being unceremoniously kicked out. Only the selfish urge to try one more time to persuade Alexandria away from a loveless marriage kept her going.

As she ascended the many stairs, she attempted to flatten her hair down a bit and give herself a slightly more civil look. When she was as ready as she was ever going to be, she knocked on the front door. A severe looking servant she vaguely recognized opened it shortly thereafter.

"Miss Griffin?" he said, completely unperturbed by her physical appearance and her manifestation at the estate. Clarke supposed such unruffling was a requirement of being the doorman.

"Good evening, sir. I would like to see the countess."

He said nothing for a few seconds and Clarke felt her stomach plummet as she contemplated the prospect that Alexandria wasn't even home. It had never occurred to her before that this might be the case, but with the wedding imminently looming, it was entirely possible that she had gone to stay somewhere closer to the venue in the city. But if that were the case, surely Roan would have informed her of this? Unless it happened _after_ he left and she and Alexandria had passed like ships in the night. If that were so, this entire 'quest' had been for naught.

"I realize my being here at such a time unannounced is somewhat unorthodox, but I was hoping I might procure an audience all the same. If you would just let the countess know of my presence, I am sure she will agree to such a scheme."

She was of course not sure at all about this, and clearly the servant agreed, if his skeptical expression was any indication. The man continued to stare at her and then stepped aside, letting her into the foyer and blessedly out of the cold. Without the sunshine, those last miles nearly chilled her as much as she previously was before the village.

"Please wait here, miss," he said, giving her a look that indicated she would be in for a scolding, or worse, if she disobeyed.

Using the mirror near at hand, she went to fix her appearance still further. Somehow she got dirt on her nose even though there was no dirt to be had outside. She peeled off a glove, licked her fingers and rubbed the unseemliness away. There was no need to pinch her cheeks for some colour, they already had quite enough as it was. Considering how pale her usual complexion was, it was entirely too much rouge and made her look like a clown. Clarke frowned into the mirror, disliking the crease that was produced down her forehead, and then decided to stop being so vain and focus on what was actually important.

However, she didn't have long to contemplate this before she heard multiple pairs of footsteps echoing along the corridor. Heart in her throat, she turned to greet her, but the words died in her throat when she saw that it was not Alexandria who had come. The bald man, Titus - looking even more severe than the doorman and his companion - came a little too close for comfort.

"She does not wish to see you," he said, a rather large amount of anger already brimming just beneath the surface.

He was intimidating, but Clarke's reaction was only to intimate back. She stood as tall as possible and said, "I would like to hear that from _her_."

Titus bristled at the obstinacy. "You will not be communicating with her in any fashion. You had best just leave."

"Does she even _know_ that I'm here?" she fired back.

"No, and she _won't_ know it," he said, voice beginning to shake with anger. "You will not have another opportunity to corrupt her mind."

Clarke was nearly as angry as he. She clenched her fists and seriously contemplated laying violent hands on him. "The only one corrupting her mind here is you!" she roared. "You twist every terrible thing that has ever happened to her for your own agenda! You made her hate herself! You made _me_ hate myself! But you won't stand in our way again! I won't let you!"

"Keep your voice down," he warned waspishly.

"No! I will do no such th-"

Faster than she would have supposed possible, he shoved a handkerchief – one could only hope a _clean_ one - into her mouth, spun her around and grabbed her roughly by both wrists. She mumbled indignantly as he marched her towards the front door, his thugs following just behind.

Once outside, he said in her ear, "There are two ways in which this can play out, Miss Griffin. You can either leave right now and never return, or you can suffer the wrath of God." He leaned her somewhat precariously over the top of the many icy stairs, his intent plain. "Choose wisely."

He fancied himself a vessel of God, yet he was clearly doing the work of the devil. Clarke squirmed against his iron grip. For an old man he was rather strong, and even the level of fury raging within her wasn't enough to break free. She was beyond angry, and yet, a small sliver of her mind was still functioning logically, and knew that he would push her down the stairs if she kept misbehaving, so she stopped attempting to extract herself from his grasp and mumbled incoherently.

"Will you leave and never return?" he queried.

She nodded once.

He righted her fully and turned her head to look at his thugs. "Know that if you are lying, Miss Griffin, this night will not end well for you." He handed her over to the other men, specifically the larger of the pair, the recent arrival. His eyes were cold and unfeeling and elicited a shiver down her spine. "See that she keeps to her word. And if she doesn't...you know what to do."

He nodded and took her firmly by the arm as they descended the stairs. She looked behind her to see Titus and the doorman watching her still. No doubt their eyes would stay on them until she was out of sight, carriage bound homeward. There was no conversation as her 'gentleman' escort was not inclined to talk and she was still gagged, uncomfortably so. They reached the stables before long. Alexandria did not make her stablehands stay outdoors in the winter time, so there was no one here presently to possibly bat an eye at a past visitor being so grossly mistreated.

Her captor grabbed a length of rope with his free hand and secured her wrists behind her person so she would not even be able to pull out the gag if she had the impulse. Then he led her to one of the smallest carriages and placed her inside. He moved his coat aside, revealing a sheathed knife. The threat was clear. Attempt anything foolhardy and your throat will be slit. Clarke would admit that she was feeling rather out of her element and scared, though not witless. He closed the door and proceeded to harness one horse and another to share the burden. Anyone with half a wit could see Violet was too exhausted for a return trip. Someone else would have to bring her back to London in the morning. With the horses secured, her captor took the drivers seat outside and slowly led them along the narrow lane until they gained access to the main entrance road towards the mansion, at which point, he took off with all haste.

As soon as they started to move, Clarke began to work on loosening her restraints. They were very tight and there was no way to slip her hands out, so she looked around her enclosure for something to cut through the rope. Eventually she made due with the edge of the windowsill. It was very awkward to reach in her cramped position, and was difficult to maintain her balance. It took ages to wear the rope down to such an extent so as to weaken and break the bond. When it finally snapped, she was glad for the gag in her mouth as her cry of success would have been loud enough to give herself away.

Now came the tricky part.

She would have to jump off of the carriage while it was moving at a good clip, and avoid being seen by her escort as she did so. The instant relief that was supplied from the gag removal helped her confidence immeasurably and she prepared herself for what she had to do. Clarke waited until they were on a decent sized bend, that way she would disappear from sight much faster than if it were a straight run. As well, this tactic would hopefully ensure her driver would be much more preoccupied with navigation than he would be with glancing behind.

She took a deep breath and opened the carriage door. As hoped for, her captors eyes were on the barely illuminated road ahead. Very carefully she shimmied onto the side of the vehicle so that she could close the door quietly behind her. If she left it swinging wide open, she might as well have screamed while she was at it. Finally, she just let go, landed on the compact and hard snow and barely managing to stifle a groan as she rolled away some distance. She picked herself up as soon as she could, pleased to note that the carriage had continued on around the bend, her driver none the wiser. Of course, he would eventually have to stop, at which point he would notice her disappearance. In the meantime, she took a moment to try and collect her bearings and figure out where exactly she was in proximity to the mansion. She thought perhaps they were only about an hour away at this point, but it was fairly hard to tell at night time with no light source besides the partially obscured moon. It would take her at least twice as long to reclaim that distance on foot, but Clarke was very determined and headed back, quite glad she could run freely in her trousers.

After about a half an hour of jogging, she considered attempting to cut through the forest instead of staying to the main road. A short deliberation told her that was a foolhardy action. The snow would most assuredly be too deep and impede her movements too much, besides which, she would probably trip on something and sprain the same ankle again. And there was no one here to pick her up this time. How bizarre that she could jump off of a moving carriage and remain unharmed, yet injure herself while falling down a slight hill.

At any rate, Clarke was thankful for her relatively good fitness acquired from near daily walks of some miles. Otherwise, she would have needed to come to a complete halt a number of times on her way back to the mansion. Still, she was quite out of breath and frozen again upon her arrival some distance outside of the enormous building. As she reclaimed her breath, she scouted out the vicinity. There did not appear to be anyone watching, which was all she could have hoped for.

Clarke's main mission was to locate Alexandria, but she also needed to be cautious and remain out of sight. The level of Titus' influence was uncertain. The only person she trusted was Alexandria. Which was perhaps unwise in and of itself considering her treatment when she was last here. She cursed herself for not bringing any kind of defensive weapon with her. Had she known just how dangerous this whole affair would become, she surely would have borrowed her grandfathers revolver from the war.

Trying to secure access through the front entrance again would be the epitome of idiocy. Probably any ground level entrances would be being watched just in case. There was a balcony Clarke remembered seeing Alexandria stand in once. She decided that was her best bet for getting in, and with any luck, her target would also be present, though she was certainly not counting on such a stroke of luck.

Creeping low, she kept out of sight of the darkened windows until she was underneath the balcony in question. There was no tree she could use. Being winter, there were no vines to climb. There was no ladder to be had and she couldn't recall seeing one in the stables either. The only thing available to her was slight indentations in the wall. It was incredibly stupid to attempt to climb it this way, at night, when it was icy, when she had little skill in such an arena, but she was going to attempt it anyway. The carriage escape had gone well. Perhaps she would not break her neck here either? It wasn't _that_ high. Only about twenty feet up. Simple.

A harrowing climb later, in which she nearly lost her grip five times, she hoisted herself over the ledge and onto the balcony. There were glass doors directly in front of her, and if anyone had been standing right there, she would have been immediately found out. There wasn't anyone that she could see, but the room was pitch dark except for the moonbeam provided by the doors. The doors weren't locked so she was able to get inside without smashing one and possibly alerting violent people to her presence. There was a large bed here, of an incredibly elaborate design. Something befitting a countess. Clarke had never been in Alexandria's room and the urge to explore was strong, but it wasn't where her focus needed to lie.

She knew Alexandria rarely slept, so the obvious place to look was her study on the floor beneath this room. Before she left the finely furnished bedroom, she had the presence of mind to grab a suitable weapon. It was the same cane she had used while indisposed during her stay here. The dragon-headed aid had belonged to Alexandria's father. It had served her well once before, so perhaps it would again. Mind you, she was quite desirous to avoid an altercation all together. Clarke didn't wish to hurt anyone, but if they attempted to stop her again from seeing Alexandria, she would.

Most of the servants were already in their basement quarters, and therefore the hallways were mostly clear. So it was that she had a rather easy go of reaching the study. Even before she opened the door, she knew she would not find Alexandria here. All previous visits had showcased an impressive glow for a multitude of candles. There was nary a light to be seen. Still, she had to be certain and she opened the door to confirm her suspicions. No one was here. In fact, from what she could tell (using the light in the hallway), it was in the exact same condition it had been in since their devastating confrontation, as if no one had even entered the room since then.

The grandfather clock she had passed earlier told her it was nearly midnight. If Alexandria wasn't here or her bedroom, that meant she could be literally anywhere in the mansion. And as has been previously established, the mansion was quite large. Clarke thought a moment longer and decided to check the parlour room next. There were a number of bookshelves there, and she assumed Alexandria liked to read when not entertaining.

The parlour room was on the main floor, so that is where she headed next. However, before she made it to the staircase, she heard a noise. It was distant, but it was there. Something told her to move towards the noise rather than away from it. The closer she got, the more distinct it became, and Clarke recognized it as the sound of someone crying. She also realized she had unwittingly ventured into the wing of the mansion Alexandria had avoided during her tour. The one where her entire family had eventually succumbed to their illness.

Curiously, the sound all but vanished when she drew near. A faint flicker of light directed her to the precise room the crying was emanating from. Clarke edged up to the partially opened door and peeked inside. A woman in a robe was on their knees, long hair down, arms and face pressed to the top of a bed, sobbing for all their worth, but now stifling the sound. This was clearly a very vulnerable, intimate moment for Alexandria, and Clarke felt odd about intruding, but it was anyone's guess when she would stop crying. Besides which, her heart ached at the sight of Alexandria so in despair. She could not have stopped herself from going to her, even had she tried.

Silently she moved to her side, and knelt beside her, resting the cane flat as she did so. Clarke placed a hand to her shuddering shoulder, which startled Alexandria a great deal, but nothing in comparison to her wide eyed gaze at discovering the source of her disturbance.

"Clarke?" her voice cracked.

Alexandria reached out and touched her face, fingers trembling. She gasped at the contact. "I thought you were an apparition come to torment me further. But you're real. You're really here," she murmured in awe, as her woebegone eyes scanned her face.

"I am," replied Clarke, voice almost as heavy with emotion as Alexandria's.

Alexandria dropped her hand, glancing away, looking ashamed. "Why? I treated you abominably."

"You _know_ why," said Clarke, placing a hand overtop hers. She had removed her gloves just as soon as they had regained feeling, and now they were a decent temperature, though not as warm as they should be.

When Alexandria dared to make eye contact again, Clarke smiled gently. Alexandria looked very much like she wanted to embrace her but didn't believe she had the right. Clarke took the initiative and drew her into yet another hug in which she could feel the softness of Alexandria's body even through her coat. Tonight however, she was not aroused by the sensation of their bodies pressing together, and only wished to provide comfort to the girl who had lost everything.

She stroked her back and Alexandria clung to her tighter, crying softly against her shoulder. Even after the tears ceased, she continued to hold Alexandria for some time, enjoying the intimacy of the moment, of how wonderful she smelled, of simply being in her presence.

Clarke reluctantly pulled back to cup her face. "What happened to them...it wasn't your fault, Alexandria. I need you to believe that."

Pain flashed across her face, then slowly dissolved into nothingness. She nodded at Clarke. They simply stayed that way staring at one another like they used to, and then Alexandria's gaze lowered down to her lips, and Clarke decided it was now or never. Her heart beat like charging horse hooves as she did the thing she had wanted to do for quite awhile. Kissing Alexandria was not at all like kissing Roan. It had been pleasantly enjoyable with Roan, but with Alexandria...Clarke finally understood what Octavia had been going on about when she kissed Lincoln. Kissing Alexandria sent her senses spiralling out of control, soaring to new heights. Kissing Alexandria was as close to divinity as she was likely to get while hopelessly Earthbound. In her elevated mind, there were no doubts left as to whether or not this was the correct path for her to follow.

When they eventually parted, panting - more from emotion than for want of lack of air - Clarke could see that Alexandria believed very much the same thing. She was looking at her like she was heaven sent and Clarke had never felt more desirable and at peace with the world. Arms on each others shoulders, they leaned their foreheads together, as if to steady one another both physically and mentally. Secretly, they smiled, knowing whatever happened next, this perfect moment could never be taken away from them.

"Clarke," breathed out Alexandria, "what are we going to do now?"

"Whatever we want. Nothing shall stop us now. Not your engagement, nor Titus nor anyone else."

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I should never have agreed to that arrangement. But you were hesitating to accept Roan's proposal and I knew I wasn't strong enough to refuse you should you inexplicably reciprocate my feelings."

"Inexplicably?" wondered Clarke. She pulled back enough to look into her eyes. "You sell yourself woefully short, Alexandria. You are incredibly talented," she kissed her nose, "and beautiful," she kissed her cheek, "and kind," she kissed her other cheek, thinking of her donations and attention to the orphanage.

"Kind? I think n-"

Clarke kissed her forehead. "And human." She smirked at her. "Though I wondered if perhaps you were a spirit of the woods the first time we met."

Alexandria smiled slightly at that. "You did?"

Clarke nodded and wrapped her arms around her neck. "And I was also very desirous to find you again. You struck quite the chord within me, Alexandria."

"As did you, Clarke," she muttered before bringing their lips together again and sinking into the pleasure such physical contact afforded them. Hands on her waist, Alexandria then pulled her into a standing position. They had been kneeling for quite some time on the cold hard floor and the pain of such a position had finally made itself known through the haze of their blissful interactions. Whereas their previous kiss had been mostly respectful, this one was not. Alexandria deepened the kiss to such an extent that Clarke mimicked her actions from her dream and moaned. This area of the mansion was frigid from lack of fires, but Clarke was quite warm within the confines of her wool coat.

She unbuttoned her jacket and awkwardly shook out of it as they continued to kiss fervently. However, when she attempted to slip the robe from Alexandria's shoulders, she was stopped with a hand to her wrist. "Not here," Alexandria whispered against her lips, rubbing her nose against hers.

Understanding came to her gradually, as well as the silliness of her actions. Titus and his men still needed to be dealt with. Now was hardly the time to lose herself in Alexandria's earthly delights.

Clarke pulled further away and thought of how best to tell her that her loyal advisor – or spiritual leader or whatever his purpose truly was - had threatened her life. Her consternation must have made itself apparent, for Alexandria likewise frowned and placed a hand to the side of her face, caressing it softly.

"Clarke?"

Suddenly Clarke was afraid of their altercation playing out poorly, so she clasped Alexandria's hand against her face and blurted, "Come away with me to Paris. Tonight."

Alexandria raised both eyebrows, then chuckled, then frowned again. "As much as I enjoy your spontaneity, Clarke, I can't help but feel as though you are keeping something from me." She brought her knuckles to her lips briefly. "Please know that you can tell me anything."

"I do know that," said Clarke, worrying her lip. Alexandria continued to gaze at her steadfastly and there was no possibility of refusal. With slumped shoulders and a sigh, she informed her of her eventful night. Alexandria's posture became stiffer and stiffer with the telling, she worked her jaw too and fro in great agitation, and her breathing became almost as erratic as when they were kissing. In short, she was very angry.

"That flapdoodle, pigeon-livered bastard!*" she exclaimed so darkly as to be almost unrecognizable. "If he thinks that he can simply do as he pleases without consequence, he is very much mistaken!"

Alexandria turned to leave but Clarke grabbed her hand. "Please, let us just go!"

Alexandria glared at her, though Clarke knew the severe look was not really meant for her. "He assaulted you, Clarke...threatened your life," she said dangerously quiet, nostrils flaring. "I will _not_ let that stand."

Alexandria stormed away from her and she dashed to keep up. "If you must do this, at least take a moment to compose yourself so that we may come up with a plan of action together!"

"I do not _need_ a plan of action," returned Alexandria obstinately. "He is _my_ servant and he _will_ do as I say. They _all_ will!"

Her arrogance was irritating to say the least but hardly surprising given her state of mind. Further entreaties proved just as fruitless so they fell into a tense silence. On the ground floor, Alexandria barked at a stray servant extinguishing the last of the lights to bring Titus to her in the parlour room.

It wasn't long before he made himself known. He bristled when he saw Clarke. Alexandria redirected his attention back to herself.

"Yes, she is still alive, Titus."

Rather than quail under her thorny gaze and tone, he simply moved further into the room, positioning himself a few feet in front of his mistress. The fact that he was so unmoved by her obvious wrath only served to fuel a greater sense of impending doom for Clarke.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" demanded Alexandria. "How do you possibly justify such heinous acts?"

"There is no need for justification," he replied. "I answer to a higher power than that of yourself. I do as the Lord wills."

Alexandria gripped the back of a chair. Her knuckles were white from the exertion.

"You threatened an innocent girls life! How on earth is that the will of the Lord?!"

"Innocent?" he sneered, his sight landing on Clarke again. "I think not. She is a snake in the grass, a temptress, leading you astray once more." He glanced back at Alexandria. "If your feelings for her were not blinding you so, you would be able to see that I am only doing what is best for your soul. Just as I have always done."

Clarke thought she understood his meaning plainly. That he had interfered with Alexandria's previous relationship with Costia. Apparently Alexandria was not so lost to her rage that she too could fathom his meaning. She stepped around the chair and stood within arms reach, though she kept her arms behind her back in a very reminiscent manner to dealing with herself.

"What did you do?" exhaled Alexandria, in a useless effort to calm herself. "Speak truly."

"After I learned of your...dalliance with that country girl, I prayed for guidance, and the answer was clear. I spoke to Costia at length and made her see the error of her ways. Then I paid a man to propose to her, and she readily accepted. She knew what must be done to save her soul. I only wish that _you_ could as well."

Alexandria's whole body was vibrating with rage and emotion. Clarke had never seen someone more angry in her entire life. It was a testament to Alexandria's willpower that she was not throttling the man. In that moment she was actually a bit fearful of the countess. And yet Titus remained completely unaffected.

"You dared to interfere in _my_ affairs?! You dare to _continue_ to interfere! Such insolence and betrayal will _not_ be borne!" She pointed towards the side of the mansion. " _Get out_!"

"I cannot leave until you have renounced the snake."

"Do not call her _that_!" snarled Alexandria, grabbing his lapels and yanking him forward so that they were practically nose to nose. " _Clarke_ is not going anywhere unless _she_ should wish it!"

"Then I am afraid I must take matters into my own hands," he said solemnly, effortlessly breaking free from her grasp and spinning her around to restrain her that way, much as he had done to Clarke.

"Let her go!" yelled Clarke, surging forward, cursing herself for forgetting to bring the cane with her. She settled for picking up the chair Alexandria had been using to anchor herself. This she attempted to swing at Titus's back, but he turned with Alexandria, nearly causing Clarke to hit her instead. A moment later the doorman had appeared out of nowhere and knocked her to the ground. They struggled there for a time until she managed to bite his hand, drawing blood. He groaned in pain but she did not take pity on him and instead stood up and kicked him in the head, effectively rendering him unconscious.

Both Titus and Alexandria were looking at her a little uncertainly, as if not expecting such savagery from such a young woman. Alexandria however, overcame her surprise much faster than Titus and took a page out of Clarke's book and backwards headbutt the man. His grip lessened enough that she was able to manoeuvre herself away. Clarke then grabbed the sideways chair and smashed it across his back and head and he dropped like a sack of stones. She tossed aside the bits of wood that had broken off in her hands and brought Alexandria into a secure embrace.

"Clarke, that was amazing," murmured Alexandria.

"Consider the favour returned," she replied a bit shakily, hardly believing she had done any of that by herself. The day had been very long and the night had been very trying, and yet she was hardly tired. How could she be when she was in Alexandria's arms? "Your well being is my primary concern."

Alexandria pulled away from her in order to take her hands and beam at her. She was clearly about to kiss her when a couple of other servants garbed in sleepwear hurried into the room, stopping dead in their tracks when they saw the carnage.

"Mistress?" said one of them timidly, gawking at the display before them.

Without glancing away from Clarke for one instant, she said, "See that Titus, Samuel and Quint's things are collected. They are dismissed from my employ and are never to set foot on the Woods grounds again. If any of them prove difficult to evacuate, simply shoot them."

"Mistress?" wondered the poor woman, even more wide-eyed than before.

Alexandria held back a smirk as she continued, "Send someone into town. Ask for Sergeant Miller. He will assist your efforts without fail. In the meantime, see that Titus and Samuel are secured within this room. When Quint arrives, likewise do the same. Use as many men as is necessary to ensure your own safety."

Clarke looked towards the two servants. "Be careful, he had a knife."

Alexandria then took her out of the room and began leading her back up the stairs.

"Where are we going?" asked Clarke.

"Paris, of course," came the immediate reply. "We had better get packing."

* * *

 ***A cowardly asshole who can't get it up**

 **Titus is such a prick. It's amazing how wrong I got his character in First Cut is the Deepest.**

 **So I guess I'm continuing this in Paris...though I COULD just leave it as is.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry for the delay. My computer's being a bitch again.  
**

* * *

Parisian clothing was somewhat more immodest than that of London, as was the behaviour. Clarke had been here for over a month and she had seen a number of men and women openly kissing in public in rather indecent attitudes; the type of manners one would expect in the back alleyway of a pub or within a brothel. Every time she came across this scandalous behaviour, her first instinct was that of repulsion, then embarrassment, then yearning, her own desires surfacing.

Lexa - for she called her that now – had yet to touch her in any intense intimate way. It seemed as though all of the passion from their last kiss in England had vanished without a trace, as if it had only been summoned by the emotional reunion, and was now lost at sea. Lexa would hold her hand when they were in private, hug her, give her chaste kisses, but nothing more. Except for those rare occasions that Lexa's nightmares awoke Clarke, they did not even share a bed together at the top of the hotel they had for their singular use. As Lexa explained, this was by no means an odd occurrence as she owned the building.

Intellectually, Clarke understood that Lexa had many issues with intimacy. Her traumatic past all but ensured her misgivings. Clarke could reassure Lexa all she wanted, but if Lexa did not truly believe her that their souls (Clarke's in particular) would remain intact should they take that next step together...they would forever remain at odds. For awhile Clarke was happy to simply be in her presence, to spend time with her uninterrupted, to become acquainted with all of her little quirks and foibles, but eventually it wasn't enough, and her body ached for her touch more and more every day.

Her erotic daydreams and dreams in general were far from helping matters. Every morning she would awake, disappointed by the unreality of it all, and lustfully gaze over at Lexa as she slept peacefully, her hair a fright. She would smile and distract herself from certain urges by taking out her sketchbook and drawing her favourite subject. Invariably Lexa would catch her in such a concentrated state and smile sleepily in her direction. Clarke would then put down her pencil, stride over to her side and kiss her forehead or hair or shoulder in greeting.

This particular morning however, Clarke forwent the sketching altogether and instead slipped into Lexa's bed while she was still asleep. She held her from behind and began kissing her neck and jawline. When Lexa finally stirred, she breathed across the sensitive skin of her neck, "Good morning, beautiful."

"Clarke," muttered Lexa somewhat breathlessly, "what on earth are you doing?"

"Saying good morning," she reiterated in what she hoped was a seductive tone. Clarke nipped at her earlobe. "You're irresistible, Lexa."

Lexa stiffened against her, placed a hand to hers, and removed them from around her stomach. She then turned around to face Clarke, looking annoyed. "Please refrain from doing this again. We have separate beds for a reason."

Clarke bristled at the rebuff. "So it is only acceptable for me to hold you when _you_ are the one who is in need? What of _my_ needs, Lexa?"

Lexa flinched and cast her eyes downwards. Clarke reached out and squeezed her hand, hoping to apologize, but Lexa pulled away again, getting out of the bed all together. She disappeared into the water closet. Clarke flopped onto her back and sighed as if all the burdens of the world rested on her shoulders.

* * *

They spent the rest of the morning in strained silence and then Clarke dressed in a striped yellow outfit Lexa had bought her early on and stepped into the waiting carriage. The driver, Gustus, a large Serbian fellow with little in the way of conversation, swiftly took her to her destination of the past week, Académie Julian. While she and Lexa had been exploring Paris together, sometime after their three day visit to the Louvre, they came across an old master, William-Adolphe Bouguereau, who had been friendly with Lexa's mother, Valentine. The three of them got to talking, Clarke forever charmed with Lexa's exquisite French accent, and with this discourse, learned that Monsieur Bouguereau was looking for another female student. Since he specialized in the female form itself, and Clarke was acquainted and admired his work, she promptly accepted his offer of tutelage.

Within the first few days, Monsieur Bouguereau removed her from the public arena, and into another room for private study, proclaiming her work to be already much better than his typical student. Since he only spoke broken English and she only spoke broken French, it was somewhat difficult to effectively communicate, but somehow they managed. Every afternoon Clarke would come in and a new female nude would be waiting for her to draw and paint. The experience was a little unnerving for her the first time, especially since they were often alone together for long stretches of time, but now she hardly batted an eye. Today, however, she was a little taken aback. Whereas the previous models had been on the older, heavier side, this one was quite young and fit.

The woman was about her age, brown hair tied up to better see every angle of her. She was slimmer than Clarke herself, and quite attractive. Without much effort, Clarke was reminded of Lexa. Clarke had seen her naked once while getting out of the bath, an event that had mortified Lexa, but aroused Clarke to no end. Apparently she had begun fantasizing of wet skin again, because she was being scolded by Monsieur Bouguereau for not drawing, and she hadn't even been aware of his presence. The female model smirked in her direction, and embarrassed for her lack of focus, Clarke got back to work.

Upon the conclusion of their session, Clarke began packing her supplies away. She was startled by the model approaching her, still entirely nude (even though a white robe had been within reach of her earlier position). Such a thing had never occurred before. Clarke was further startled by the woman speaking to her in perfect English, albeit heavily accented with French.

The woman held out a hand and introduced herself. "My name is Ontari. Yours is Mademoiselle Griffin, yes?"

Clarke cleared her throat and replied, "Yes. How did you know?"

Ontari smirked, lowering her unshaken hand. "Monsieur Bouguereau yelled it a few times while you were...how you say...daydreaming."

Clarke flushed, glancing off to the side, so as not to receive an eyeful at such close range, as if that mattered after sketching her for hours from all angles and various different positions.

Ontari placed a hand on her shoulder, making Clarke's head snap up. "Do not be embarrassed. I was flattered."

They stared at one another for a time and then Clarke stepped away. "Well, I must be going now. Thank you for your time."

"More's the pity," pouted Ontari, stepping in close again. "I was hoping we could become better..." she ran a fingertip along her collarbone, "acquainted." She ran the same fingertip across Clarke's lips and winked. "If you take my meaning."

Clarke gawked at the woman's brazen attempts at seduction, and to her neverending shame, she actually contemplated the offer for a fraction of a second. No matter how frustrated she was where Lexa was concerned, she promised herself to never stoop so low as to have an affair with a stranger. Just because it was Paris and there were mistresses aplenty here, did not mean she would take one for herself.

She mastered herself, standing a little taller. "Once more, thank you for your time, Ontari."

"Are you entirely sure you mean to refuse me?" Ontari whispered, undoing her hair and letting the brown locks cascade down her back and across her shoulders. Despite her best efforts, Clarke's gaze followed this action, only to be met with a glint of amusement (and something else) in Ontari's eyes. "You draw me so well, Mademoiselle. Talented hands like that should be put to good use." Without ceremony, Ontari then took Clarke's hand and placed it against her breast, moaning slightly at the contact. "Feel your artwork, Mademoiselle. Does it not feel good?" she husked right before grabbing her neck and kissing Clarke full on the mouth. The woman immediately attempted to French kiss her but Clarke was not having any more of this lunacy.

Quite irritated and disgusted by the woman's blatantly inappropriate and unwanted attentions, Clarke pushed the woman off of her and slapped her hard across the face. In as commanding a voice as she could muster considering the shock to her senses, she said, "Desist at once! I have no interest in pursuing a relationship of any kind with you, so I suggest you remove the notion from your dimwitted head at once...and put some clothing on while you are at it!"

"Suit yourself," said Ontari with a shrug that seemed somewhat forced on her part, as if she was not quite as disaffected by the refusal as she was attempting to let on. This was further confirmed by her final boast. "It is your loss. Many have told me that I am an exceptional lover."

Clarke rolled her eyes and attempted to vacate the room. Before she did however, Ontari struck quite the blow. "Just ask the countess."

Just before the door, Clarke froze in place and then slowly turned around again. "What did you say?" she asked, breathing a little heavily.

Ontari smirked again, back to her previous level of cockiness. "Yes, Countess Woods and I have a history. Did she not tell you about me yet?" She placed a hand to her chest. "I am hurt."

Clarke clenched a fist momentarily and moved closer to the unperturbed woman. Without confirming or deny her own relationship with the countess, she said, "I cannot even begin to fathom what you are playing at, Ontari, but I assure you that whatever your goal here today was, you did not succeed."

"Did I not?" was the coy response as she twisted a strand of hair between her fingertips, as if she were a flirting schoolgirl. Clarke thought she had never seen a less innocent girl in her life.

"How did you come to be here?" demanded Clarke.

"Some days when customers are scarce, I come to establishments like this, so that I may earn something." She leaned in and whispered, "And by customers I of course mean those with healthy _appetites_. Alexandria in particular was quite _insatiable_. But you will of course know all about that, Mademoiselle Griffin."

Clarke felt torn between punching her and crying, so she did neither and instead stormed out of the small studio, just barely remembering to grab her sketchbook and supplies on the way out.

* * *

Gustus was a smart fellow and did not inquire as to her bad mood as she rejected his hand and entered the carriage unaided. On the clattering ride to the hotel, Clarke's mind raced over everything Ontari had said, wondering if there was any truth there, wondering why this woman suddenly appeared. Clarke did not want to interrogate Lexa on the matter, but she _needed_ to, for her own sanity. The uncharitable part of her mind wondered if Lexa had been seeing Ontari again, and the shame of their encounters was the real reason behind Lexa's refusal to be intimate with her, and it in fact had nothing to do with past misgivings.

So it was that Clarke more or less attacked Lexa with accusations upon entering the same room as her. Lexa had been standing out on the balcony, admiring the faintly glittering city below. Their dinner was set out in the middle of the large room, many more candles than was necessary in place, hanging above, all around, stretching Lexa's shadow long and menacing.

"Have you ever been with a French woman named Ontari?!" she yelled, marching straight up to her, so as to better see her reaction.

Lexa stared at her warily and in confusion. "Who?"

Furiously, Clarke tore out a page from her sketchbook and held the image in her face. "This woman! This one right here?! Have you ever been with her?!"

Clarke was hoping for more blank recognition but then Lexa's face unmistakably blanched and with a trembling hand, she took the paper, studying it in abject horror.

"Yes," she said in a very small voice. "At least, I think so."

"You don't know?" she half scoffed, torn between being alarmed by Lexa's unsteadiness and incensed by it.

Lexa dropped the torn paper and shakily made her way to the nearest chair and collapsed into it. She put her head in her hands. Lexa sighed deeply, still in that woebegone posture.

"It was over two years ago, Clarke, when Roan and I were last in Paris. As you know, I was struggling day to day, drinking to excess...one morning I found myself in an unfamiliar bed. I was naked. That woman was beside me. I stumbled out of the brothel as soon as I could and never saw her since...until right now. I was half hoping it was just a bad dream..."

Clarke was now chastising herself most adamantly for going about this so poorly. She was supposed to be supportive, helping Lexa move past the trauma's of that dark period in her life, instead she had let Ontari get to her and reopened them with a vengeance. Her anger was redirected where it previously was, at the harlot. She knelt beside Lexa in a gesture of supplication, as if silently begging for forgiveness. "If she took advantage of you-"

Lexa chuckled without humour. She removed her hands, revealing the wetness there. Clarke hated herself for being the cause of her current distress. "Clarke, she is an unscrupulous prostitute. It is unlikely that she would turn down a paying customer...no matter how inebriated...and judging by how empty my purse was after the fact, she robbed me blind too."

Clarke took one of her hands and began pressing kisses to it. "I shall kill her," she vowed, fully meaning it in that moment. "I shall stab her in the heart and make her feel all the pain that she has inflicted upon you. Blood must have blood."

Lexa gave her the tiniest of smiles. She patted Clarke's head. "An intriguing idea, Clarke, but wholly unnecessary. I appreciate the murderous sentiment though. It's very romantic in a Shakespearean kind of way."

Clarke grabbed hold of Lexa's body, head resting just beneath her bosom. "Forgive me, Lexa," she implored. "Please."

"That too is not necessary, Clarke," Lexa said softly, bringing her hands around her head and back to hold her as best she could in this position. She kissed the top of her hair. They stayed in that attitude for some minutes and then, "So, this Ontari woman...she was your subject for the day?"

"Yes," came the muffled reply. Lexa had allowed her to place her face inbetween her breasts, and Clarke was not keen on moving any time soon. "It was only after our session that she approached me."

"I'm afraid I'm having a difficult time understanding you, Clarke," Lexa said with a trace of amusement. "We shall have to part. Perhaps even eat dinner before it becomes unspeakably cold."

With a barely contained grumble, she pulled away from the reassuring warmth of Lexa's bosom and pushed herself to her feet. Then she held out her hand and led Lexa over to the dinner table. The original one had been far to formal for their liking, so Lexa had arranged for a much smaller one to be used instead, allowing the women to hold hands across the table while they ate, should they desire to.

Surprisingly, the soup was not as cold as one would think given the occasional gusts of frigid air emanating from the open balcony. They supped as they discussed the unsettling events of Clarke's altercation with Ontari. After Lexa was so open with her, she could not find it in herself to omit any of the particulars, unbecoming as they may be. Unsurprisingly, Lexa was less than pleased about the part where she had been forced to touch and kiss Ontari. She put down her spoon and glared off into the crackling fireplace, calming herself before she redirected it back to Clarke.

"Perhaps we should revisit that blood for blood mantra," quipped Lexa, albeit in a forced manner.

Clarke laughed nervously, unsure of what to say in this awkward situation. Lexa's expression suddenly softened and she held out a hand, which Clarke promptly took.

"I am exceedingly grieved by this abuse. I'm very sorry that this happened to you, Clarke. How are you faring?" she asked, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles.

"I admit I was rather shaken at the time, but I have since recovered my wits. Still, I doubt few would disagree that she is an abhorrent woman."

Lexa nodded her agreement.

Clarke hesitated before saying, "Do you not find it highly suspect that a woman you once... _knew_ was present at my studio attempting to seduce me?"

"Indeed I do," frowned Lexa, retrieving her hand to fold it in her lap. "And surely it cannot be coincidence that she just happened to know the nature of our relationship."

"Lexa, we have been living together atop a building that you own for three weeks now. Knowing what she knows about you, it would not have been that difficult for her to suss out the nature of our relationship."

Lexa conceded her point with a slight dip of her chin. "I'm beginning to regret not remaining incognito during our stay here," she murmured. Then more normally, "The question is, what does she want? What can she mean by insinuating herself back into my life?"

"Could it be blackmail? Could she be threatening to expose us?"

"I cannot see how she would accomplish this. It would be her word over mine. No one would believe her. And if she had photographic evidence of our past tryst, why wait all these years to blackmail me if she knew how wealthy I was?"

"Besides the fact that if such a photograph should exist, it would implicate herself?" Lexa again conceded her point with a barely registered 'oh'. "Disregarding that, it could simply be that she did not know who you were until quite recently. One cannot blackmail someone if they do not know their identity."

"Yes, I suppose..." Lexa shook her head. "No, something is not quite adding up here. I feel as though we are missing a piece of the puzzle."

Ontari had been very determined to seduce her. Why?

"Is it possible that she could be working _with_ someone? That she is only a puppet doing as her master bids?"

"To what end?" she muttered rubbing her temples.

"Not to be indelicate, Lexa, but you are a wealthy woman in power. Many would love to see you fall. And there was the matter in which you left England. You did leave a man on the eve of his wedding."

Lexa raised an eyebrow at that. "You believe the Duke is behind this? That is very hard for me to fathom. He is far too much of a gentleman."

"Scorned lovers can act in bizarre ways."

"No," said Lexa shaking her head, "he knows nothing of who I really am. I doubt he even believes women can love one another in that way. Besides, very few in England are even aware of your accompanying me here."

"Then perhaps Titus is behind this."

Lexa shook her head again. "I have a man keeping close watch on his whereabouts. As of two days ago he was still in England spouting his nonsense to all those within ear. And if he were here somehow, we surely would have heard of it. He believes himself so holy that he would surely have felt compelled to slaughter all those present in such a den of inequity. The massacre would not have escaped our notice. But more to the point, there is no way he could have known about that particular misstep."

They were both silent for a little while, staring off in contemplation, and then both caught each others widened gazes at once.

"Lexa, did _Roan_ know of your encounter with Ontari?"

"Yes...but it's not him," she defended immediately afterwards.

"I do not wish to believe him capable of such a thing any more than you do...but he is the _only_ one with any knowledge about that particular misstep, and he _does_ have a compelling reason to be grieved with _both_ of us. _And_ he was the one who suggested we come here, going so far as to supply us with the boat tickets."

"It's not him," she reiterated, standing up and pacing around in an agitated manner. "It's not him."

Clarke likewise got up and went to place her hands on her shoulders. "If not him, then who?"

Lexa finally stilled, slumping against her. "I don't know."

* * *

That night Lexa awoke her with a particularly loud cry of distress. Clarke pushed her sheets aside and went to stand beside the thrashing girl. This nightmare was far worse than the ones before. Uncertain on how to proceed, she simply shook her shoulder, while evading errant limbs, calling her over and over until she finally opened her eyes.

"Clarke?" she gasped, shooting out a hand to grab hold of her arm. "You were gone..." tears filled her eyes, "and I could not find you." Lexa clutched at her nightgown. "You will not leave me, will you, Clarke? I could not bear it if you did."

Clarke hunched down beside her, holding her face in her hands. "You were having a nightmare, but it's over now." She kissed her forehead. "I'm right here, Lexa. I am not going anywhere. I am never leaving your side." She smiled softly, rubbing her thumbs across her cheeks. "I would marry you if I could."

Lexa looked at her in awe again, in the way she had after their second chess match. "You would?"

Clarke chuckled lightly at her bemused state. "Of course I would. I love you."

Lexa placed their foreheads together. "And I love you too," she said thickly, voice full of emotion, "more than I can ever say."

"There's no need for words, Lexa. You show me how you feel every day."

Lexa closed her eyes. "But not in the way that you desire," she whispered forlornly. Her lip trembled. "That was the reason you left me. I could not please you the way you wished to be pleased."

"Lexa, please look at me." She waited until she had Lexa's undivided attention. "I am _not_ going anywhere. I swear it most adamantly. For better or worse, our souls are entwined. You could not get rid of me if you tried."

She left out the _again_ , knowing herself to be much stronger than she was then. She only wished Lexa could see it too.

Lexa nodded slightly, releasing a shaky breath. Clarke pressed their lips together in a final gesture of comfort and then rose to her feet, intending to reclaim her own bed after the fiasco that morning. However, Lexa grasped her hand before she turned away. "Stay with me," she implored, and Clarke gratefully slipped in beside Lexa, who immediately held her close.

"Were you tempted?" Lexa asked of her, as she stroked her back.

"I love _you_ , and _only_ you," she reiterated, with another soft kiss. "Nothing shall ever change that."

Lexa smiled and snuggled even closer, sighing contentedly. Before long they had both drifted off to sleep, safe in each others arms.

So it was that Clarke was rather startled to find Lexa was gone come morning. Lexa almost always stayed in bed longer than her because she took longer _to_ _get_ to bed. This was yet another reason Lexa had insisted on separate beds, not wanting to disturb her slumber - which was sadly ironic considering the frequency with which she had nightmares and did just that.

"Lexa?" she called, to no effect. To guard against the morning's chill, she slipped on her slippers and donned her robe before searching around the top of the hotel. Besides a couple of members of the wait staff busily making fires, she could find no one up here.

"Have you seen the countess?" she asked one of them, who replied in the negative.

When she inquired downstairs, the concierge told her that yes, Lexa had passed by just as the sun was rising and gotten into a carriage, but no, he did not know to where. Clarke had two options before her. Either get dressed and fruitlessly go looking for her, or go back to bed.

Clarke chose option number two and promptly had yet another erotic dream about Lexa. Having their shared bedroom to herself was a rarity in the mornings, so Clarke decided to take full advantage of the situation and attempt to stave off some of her ever present lust. Clarke did not often pleasure herself, and certainly was no expert at it, but the sensations she was able to produce on her own were pleasant enough. She was in the thick of things when she moaned out Lexa's name and heard a quiet gasp in reply. It was only then that she became aware of her audience.

Lexa stared at her as if in a trance, mouth parted, eyes hooded. Clarke was too far gone for apologies or mortification at being caught in the act. Lexa absentmindedly placed a small parcel on top of the dresser and then swiftly strode over to her side. She pulled a chair close, sat down and then placed her hand over Clarke's wrist, stilling her increasingly frantic movements. Lexa moved Clarke's hand away all together and replaced it with her own. Clarke gasped at the contact. Partly because her hand was cold and partly because it was _Lexa's_ hand. Clarke hardly dared to believe that this was truly happening. If she were dreaming still, she would likely kill the first person she saw upon awakening.

Lexa kept her gaze firmly locked on Clarke's, at least, that _seemed_ to be the case every time she managed to open her eyes as the delicious sensations swirled through her like a coursing river. Without much effort, Clarke was coming undone in Lexa's hands, or rather, fingers. The release was stronger than she was accustomed to, which was surprising since Lexa had barely had the opportunity to touch her. When she had gotten her breathing and body more under control, she looked over to find Lexa just staring at her fingers, still slick with her release. She had that same trance like expression.

"Lexa?" she called gently, brushing her knee, bringing her back to the present.

Lexa tore her gaze away from her fingertips, and Clarke could plainly see the want within her eyes. Without much manoeuvring - indeed, Clarke was not entirely sure how she managed it - Lexa pulled her into her lap, bringing her into a brief, yet passionate kiss. She then proceeded to suckle all of her exposed skin with hot kisses and tongue and teeth, hands caressing and squeezing her sides slowly. Clarke was in heaven but the need to be consumed again was growing stronger and stronger, so she caught her lips during a moment of detachment.

She moaned when Lexa deepened the kiss in the French manner, for perhaps a fraction of a second she was reminded of her disgusting interaction with Ontari, and then the moment thankfully passed. Clarke had never kissed like this before - so unrestrained and free - and it was exciting her to such an extent that she did not even notice at first that Lexa had slid her nightgown from her shoulders. The newly exposed flesh was at once burning as well as goosebump inducing. Reluctantly, she pulled away before Lexa could pay homage to her breasts.

Hazily, Lexa stared at her bosom and then at Clarke in confusion. "Clarke?"

"Before we go any further, I need to know that you are not doing this simply because _I_ wish it, or you feel as if you will lose me if you do _not_ do this."

"Have no fear on that score, Clarke," said Lexa in thrillingly low tones. "That particular demon has been slayed." She squeezed her hips and half smiled. "You saw to that last night."

Her eyes flickered down to her exposed flesh again and the look of pure lust there stoked the fire within her to full blast. "Take me to bed, Lexa," she just managed to get out.

Lexa happily did so, and they remained there for the rest of the morning. For all of her bravado, Clarke nearly succumbed to nerves a number of times during their first lovemaking session, and it was only with Lexa's patient understanding and guidance that Clarke was able to give and receive to the best of her rather limited abilities. She had never felt more invigorated than when Lexa bowed and whimpered to her every touch, clumsy as they had no doubt been, despite Lexa's breathy avowals to the contrary. As Lexa worshipped her body she mumbled a number of things she did not fully understand, not from lack of volume, but rather due to the language she used. Clarke's French had somewhat improved during her stay in Paris and the general immersion to the language, but Lexa was mostly using words she had never heard before. At any rate, the effect was the same and Clarke was utterly captivated by her quiet mutterings of what she assumed were words of love.

* * *

 **Aw they finally got to do the do! You go girls! Thirst monster Clarke has been sated...for now. ;)  
**

 **I got no clue why I decided to bring Ontari into this thing but it's been done so no take backs!**

 **Yeah, so Clarke doesn't understand French that well cuz I don't either. I seem to have forgotten everything. Or maybe I just never learned it properly in the first place...in any case, there ain't gonna be much/any French while they're in Paris...:p But how sexy would Lexa's French accent be? Like très sexy, bébé!**


	11. Chapter 11

"Was that...to your liking?" queried Lexa afterwards, stroking her arm softly. She blushed prettily as she posed the question, which only served to enhance her natural beauty and Clarke's appreciation for her.

The blissful haze was just beginning to recede. Clarke was lethargic and somewhat sore but exceedingly happy and satisfied. The continual lust and want that had plagued her for the past month – and arguably longer – had finally subsided.

They were both propped up on an elbow, facing one another, hair dishevelled. Clarke smiled sleepily, leaned forward and kissed the anxious woman before her. "Rest assured, Lexa, it was. Very much so."

Lexa's return smile was so brilliant that Clarke was almost taken aback. The rarity of it was immense. The fact that she possessed quite a fine set of teeth made such a sight all the more breathtaking. There were many people who loved to smile fully, who really should not, lest they frighten children.

Clarke likewise flushed when she asked a similar question. "Was I...are you quite certain I was not entirely abysmal?"

Lexa stared at her fondly before replying, "Quite." Smirking, Lexa tip-toed her fingers down her arm until she was able to link their fingers together, bringing them up to kiss. "Your hands are very talented, Clarke."

While obviously not intentionally done, the similarity of the phrase to that of which Ontari spoke during her recent harassment, brought a dip to the curve of her lips that Lexa could not help but notice with so little distance between them.

Lexa's own smile faltered. "What's wrong?" she asked, squeezing her hand.

"Nothing at all," she said. Deciding it best to swiftly change topics lest she ruin this perfect moment between them, she added, "Where did you go?"

Lexa looked anywhere but at her. "Go? Whatever do you mean, Clarke?"

"Lexa, you left at daybreak." She tilted her head in the direction of the dresser. "You went somewhere and brought that package back with you."

Lexa glanced where she had inclined her head. "Oh, _that_ package. You have very keen eyesight, Clarke. Your vision has yet to be impaired. I am rather envious. Reading glasses can be very tedious to maintain."

Clarke laughed incredulously at her odd behaviour. She placed a hand to her face, and Lexa thankfully looked at her.

Lexa sighed and muttered, "I was planning on making it a surprise but you seem to have found me out prematurely."

The nervousness she was exuding whilst making her way over to the package peaked Clarke's interest almost as much as the sight of Lexa's sleek form retreating. It was the first time Clarke was able to actually appreciate Lexa's fine figure without any embarrassment or mortification. She would hopefully one day have the honour of sketching Lexa in all her glory.

Upon her return, Lexa turned the package over and over again in her hands, eventually with a determined nod holding it out to her. She remained standing there, agitated and nude, and apparently unaware of Clarke's less than innocent appraisal. Clarke tore her eyes away to stare at the package. It was fairly light and fit in the palm of her hand. Without further ado she unwrapped the package to discover a square black jewellery box. Lexa had already bought her a number of items, so she was confused as to why this particular one made Lexa so uneasy and required such secrecy.

Clarke did not wonder for long. As soon as she opened the box, her jaw dropped. A sizeable ring was within, larger even than the one Roan had purchased. The band was simple silver which was just as well since all other scrutiny was lost to the centrepiece. Surrounded by a ring of diamonds, a blue sapphire of impeccable cut shone back at her, reflecting her own inner joy. The weariness that had been settling in dispelled immediately.

Clarke looked up at Lexa, for once not even noticing her nakedness. She was shuffling back and forth, wringing her hands continuously, biting her lip. "I know that we cannot marry," she hurried to say, adorably frowning, "but you mentioned yesterday that you would marry me if you _could_...so I thought perhaps a ring would be agreeable. Do you like it?"

At a loss for words, Clarke pushed out of the bed, took Lexa's fidgeting hands and wrapped them around her back. Then she hugged her fiercely, skin on skin.

"Yes, Lexa," she eventually whispered, emotion firmly gripping her throat, "I like it. I _love_ it, just as I love you." She kissed her neck. "How could I not? You are both beautiful beyond compare."

After some time of simply holding one another, in which some tears were shed, they went back to bed. Another short bout of lovemaking had them utterly exhausted and unable to keep their eyes open. They slept until late afternoon and want of food roused them. Clarke had all but missed her studio time but she could not have cared less. She wasn't even entirely sure she ever wanted to resume her lessons at that particular establishment.

Once the wait staff had vanished and while they waited for the tea to cool sufficiently, Clarke slipped on the engagement ring and held it up. They admired it in its new location until Clarke said, "I am thrilled by the ring, Lexa, however...how shall I wear it in public without drawing further suspicion towards our already precarious position?"

It was quite obviously an engagement ring, so even if she wore it on her right hand, it would still raise unwanted notice.

"As to that," said Lexa, putting her tea down and standing up, "I have an idea."

She strode out of the dining area and into their shared bedroom. A few minutes later she returned, something firmly grasped within her hand. Lexa opened it to reveal a locket. It was a simple looking thing, nothing worth much notice. Perfect.

"I believe this is large enough to house the ring. You can wear it around your neck and no one will ever be the wiser."

They smiled at one another and then went back to drinking their now sufficiently cooled tea. As she stared at the ring once more, another thought occurred to her. "Lexa...how precisely did you procure this ring?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean...you are a woman...did not the proprietor find it odd that you were purchasing an _engagement_ ring?"

Lexa smirked. "I had Gustus purchase it for me."

"Gustus?" said Clarke a little nervously. "Do you think that wise?"

"Indeed I do."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Let us just say that he would never willingly betray my trust. He was loyal to my father and he remains so to me. As do all of the staff who wait upon this hotel. I have the utmost confidence in their...discretion. Which is just as well...now that I think of it, you were quite boisterous at one point, Clarke."

Embarrassed, she blushed, and Lexa grinned smugly, proud of her abilities now that she was assured of them. Once the tea was consumed, a servant returned to clear the table and also to remind Lexa that she had an engagement this evening. Clarke vaguely recalled there was yet another event being hosted by a high society type. They were generally exceedingly dull or trivial affairs and Lexa had told her she need not come. _She_ must, if only to maintain appearances, but Clarke had no such obligation. In fact, it was perhaps easier to maintain a facade when she wasn't there. Tonight, however, she decided she would like to accompany Lexa.

Henceforth, a bath was drawn, one in which they shared. The purpose of the bath was quickly forgotten, and by the time it was recalled, the water was cold. They quickly dried themselves and then began the tedious process of finding something suitable to wear. Clarke was having so much trouble deciding between two dresses that Lexa eventually chose for her and went so far as to help her into the outfit, leaving fingers lingering in places that she knew would cause Clarke disquiet. Lexa tied the outer laces of the dress and finished with a kiss inbetween her shoulder blades. By the time they were on their way, Clarke was wishing they had simply stayed put. It would be difficult to maintain control when she was hot and bothered and Lexa was looking as sensual as she was.

The hosts, The Vies, came over to greet them warmly, as did a number of other men and women alike. Clarke clenched her fists every time a woman kissed Lexa's cheeks and fawned over her appearance excessively, and smirked subtly every time Lexa watched the same happen to herself. As soon as niceties were out of the way, gossiping commenced, and it was so rapid fire that Clarke could not hope to keep up. So instead she excused herself and went in search of refreshment. Almost immediately, an older gentleman accosted her and not so subtly glanced at the exposed portion of her bosom while asking inane questions. Clarke proceeded to answer with nonsensical phrases in French - which unfortunately was not that far removed from her actual abilities - and bewildered, the man finally left her alone.

A couple of minutes later a woman approached her. She was elderly, but still quite the beauty. The woman smiled and picked up an entire bottle of wine. Clarke expected her to walk off with it. Instead she began perusing the label.

"Ah, 1843," she said with a strange accent. It sounded a bit mixed. "That was a very good year." She glanced sideways at Clarke. "It was the year I was wed."

"Is your husband here with you tonight?" asked Clarke politely, thankful for someone speaking her language.

"Sadly no," replied the woman, still examining the label. "He is not overly fond of these sorts of affairs, and only attends when he absolutely must."

"I can understand the sentiment," said Clarke truthfully, looking over where Lexa was entirely absorbed in some no doubt fascinating discourse.

The woman looked where she was looking and nodded. "Oh, Countess Woods is here. I suppose I will have to go and say hello."

"You are acquainted with the countess?" wondered Clarke aloud.

The woman glanced back at her and seemingly waited for her to take a mouthful of liquid before saying, "Why yes. She is my niece."

Clarke did her best not to spit it out. She swallowed harshly. "You are Mrs. Hawkins?"

The woman smiled. "I am. And you are?"

"Clarke Griffin," she said through the burn in her throat.

Mrs. Hawkins raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't react. "I have heard much about you from my son. He was quite taken with you, and seeing you now, I can understand why. Such a pity that your engagement did not pan out." She looked over at Lexa. "There has been a lot of that going on lately." She glanced back to Clarke, "How funny that we should finally be meeting under such circumstances."

Doing her best to ignore the many warning bells in her head, she said, "How is Roan faring?"

Nia smiled, but the light did not reach her eyes. "I wouldn't know. He's gone off gallivanting around the world again. It seems you broke his heart quite thoroughly." Before Clarke could respond Nia continued, "Tell me, Miss Griffin, why did you accompany my niece to Paris?"

Uncomfortable now, Clarke fiddled with the locket around her neck, drawing Nia's attention. She bristled slightly and said, "Where did you get that locket?"

"Oh, um, the countess gave it to me," she muttered, fighting a flush.

"It belonged to my sister," said Nia, somewhat tight lipped. "And our mother before that. How strange that Alexandria would give it to you."

"We are friends," said Clarke, feeling the beginnings of a nervous sweat breaking through.

"Such close friends that you refer to her as the countess to me, her _aunt_ , yet you forsake your kin to come and live with her in a foreign land for an undetermined length of time. How contradictory. How curious."

Clarke had no idea how to respond to the intimidating woman, who clearly did not just _happen_ to be at the same event they were attending.

Thankfully she was saved the effort of responding by another. Once more Lexa came to her rescue. "Aunt Nia?" she said, suddenly beside Clarke, eyes quickly skirting over her anxiety ridden posture before resting on Mrs. Hawkins.

"My dear Alexandria," smiled Nia. "It has been far too long since last we met."

They hugged each other very briefly, as a matter of formality only. They parted and simply observed one another for a time. Finally Lexa broke the silence. "What brings you to Paris at such an undesirable time of year?"

"Undesirable?" responded Nia. "I think not. Winter is the most desirable time of year as far as I'm concerned. I just love the deathly quiet. No chattering birds and other vermin. It's a shame it is nearing its conclusion."

She had looked between them as she said this last bit. Lexa tensed at the remark. On instinct Clarke said something she really should not have. "Oh, you could always travel to the North Pole."

Lexa was a little startled by the comment. It was no wonder. Clarke had basically wished death, or at least suffering, upon her aunt, for few survived those Arctic voyages unscathed, if at all. In fact, the last fools from the United States of America who attempted such a feat were left adrift on an ice floe and starving for six months before being rescued. The misfortune of the Polaris crew, and the suspect death of the captain*, had been highly talked of three years ago by her father.

Nia smirked. "Well, I'm glad to see that you've secured yourself such a lovely companion, Alexandria. Awfully dull to stay in Paris without one."

Lexa's posture stiffened further. "Indeed it is. Have you accompanied Uncle Matthew here on business?"

"Yes, we arrived five days ago." Lexa raised an eyebrow. "I would have paid you a visit earlier my dear, but you know how it is. There is always something else one must attend to. Speaking of which, I believe I've just spotted an old friend of mine." Nia smiled at Lexa. "We are staying at The Inter-Continental. Do stop by when you get the chance. I should very much like to catch up."

With a final glance at Clarke, she departed, leaving Clarke standing there very unnerved. They left soon thereafter, discussing Mrs. Hawkins appearance here in Paris, and the significance of it.

"She is clearly the puppeteer," said Clarke as the carriage rattled along on its way back to the hotel. "Surely you see that?"

Lexa shook her head wearily. "I have frequently had the impression that she does not care for me overly much. But to orchestrate a scheme of petty revenge for grieving her son? I do not know..."

"She has something else planned, I'm sure of it," Clarke continued as if she hadn't heard Lexa. "Ontari's seduction failed to separate us. Your aunt will not stop until she has succeeded." She grasped Lexa's arm. "We _must_ gain the upper hand while we still have the opportunity! I cannot be separated from you again!"

"Don't worry, Clarke. Wild horses could not keep me from you," vowed Lexa, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Whatever arousal Clarke had been experiencing earlier was forgotten and they simply went to bed together without revisiting their former exploits whilst here. In the morning Clarke fretted over Nia's scheme to such a great extent that Lexa felt obliged to accept her aunt's offer of visitation. At least that way they could keep an eye on her.

They sat by the foggy and wet windows of The Inter-Continental as coffee and tea were served, and chatted amicably enough about everything they had been up to since coming here. Then Nia focused on Clarke herself and began asking all manner of personal questions, in aid of discerning her general character, and nothing more. Or so she said. Clarke was quickly beginning to regret coming here. Lexa was apparently just as uncomfortable with this interrogation as Clarke was because she skillfully regained control of the conversation and redirected the questions back at Nia, specifically asking what she had been so occupied with the past five days that she could not find the time to call on her. Her aunt's answer at the party had been decidedly vague and suspect. This time was little better.

"My, but you are curious about my business, Alexandria," said Nia with another of her fake smiles. "It's refreshing that a young woman such as yourself should take such an avid interest in the day to day affairs of her elder. I'm afraid there is really not much to tell. I've simply been gaining my bearings on land after a week at sea."

"So you have not been on Rue Saint Sulpice?" said Lexa, staring at her aunt intently.

"I don't believe so," she replied, folding her hands in her lap. "Why? Is there something of interest there?"

"Only a number of bordellos," said Lexa, calm and collected. Clarke was startled by the direct approach she was employing, though it seemed as though Nia would never give a straight answer otherwise.

Nia laughed. "What an odd thing to bring up, Alexandria. And still odder that you should know this."

"I know this because I found Roan there a number of times."

Nia gave her a dark look and said, "Just what are you insinuating, Alexandria?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, aunt. Your son frequently enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh."

Nia looked on the verge of losing her temper. One more well placed prod would send her over the edge of decorum. "So what if he did? He is a man. It is his right." She glared at Clarke. "And considering how abominably he was treated in England, I hope it was not only _Paris_ he found comfort in the arms of a willing woman."

It was right around this point in time that Clarke became aware of another in the room, a man she had never seen before. It appeared as if he had just come in from the rain and was now eyeing the tense attitude with alarm. Clarke tried to get Lexa's attention but she was far too immersed in the conversation to notice.

"Oh, it was not only _women_ I found him in the company of," said Lexa smoothly.

Clarke had no idea just how much of this discourse was bluff and just how much was fact. Whatever the case may have been, it worked. Nia broke her elegant demeanour. She stood up and yelled, "Shut your filthy mouth! My son is not like that! He is not a disgusting homosexual! He is not like _you_!"

Lexa smirked in grim satisfaction. "So you finally admit that you know."

"Of course I know," said Nia harshly. "How could I not? It's plain as day that you are in a sapphic relationship," she gestured savagely to Clarke, "with this whore."

"How dare you call her that," said Lexa standing up and facing off with Nia in a barely restrained aggressive attitude. She clenched her jaw. "How dare you send Ontari to assault her!"

"It was no more than she deserved!" screamed Nia.

If the unknown man had not stepped in when he did, it was anyone's guess as to what might have occurred next. "That is quite enough, ladies," he said in an identical accent to that of Roan's. Nia looked rather taken aback to see him there.

"Matthew," she gasped, moving away from Lexa. "You were not to be back for another hour."

"The meeting was delayed," he replied. "Monsieur Delacorte has taken ill. Now," he said, glancing between the three of them, "what the hell is going on here?"

Neither Nia or Lexa would look him in the eye, so it was up to Clarke to explain the situation. She stood up as well and opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"Never mind, miss," he said, waving his hand. "I already heard." Mr. Hawkins stroked his greying mustache a few times before continuing. He looked to Alexandria. "Is this true? Are you a sapphist?"

The tiniest of nods and then in an even tinier voice, "Yes, uncle."

Mr. Hawkins glanced at Clarke and then back at Alexandria. "And you are in a relationship with this girl?"

Lexa's eyes skirted to hers briefly before falling back to the ground. "Yes, uncle."

Clarke and Lexa were both quite surprised by his next question. "And you are happy?"

They looked at each other and despite the circumstances, smiled slightly. "Yes," they both said at once.

He too smiled ever so faintly before looking to his wife. "Well, then, I fail to see what the issue here is, Nia. Don't you want your niece to be happy?"

Nia gawked at her husband, clearly not anticipating such easy acceptance of the situation. Nia jabbed a finger in Clarke's direction. "She ruined your son! After everything he has been through!"

"Opening one's heart to another is always a risky business," he replied calmly. "Roan is a strong man. He will survive."

"How can you condone such immoral and disgusting behaviour, Matthew!?"

"The heart is a fickle thing. We can't choose who we love. As for disgusting behaviour..." he paused as if recollecting his thoughts, "if they are disgusting, then so am I, my dear."

Everyone froze at this uttering, hardly daring to believe the admission. Nia looked like she was having an apoplectic attack. "You're not," she choked, wide eyed, sinking back into her chair when she regained the use of her limbs.

"I am," he affirmed with a curt nod. "I loved a man in my youth, before I met you. I did what was expected, I did my duty." Turning to face a still stunned Lexa, he placed his hands on her shoulders. "You have the courage to live your truth, Alexandria, and I commend you for it. It won't be an easy road to follow, but you have each other," he looked between them, smiling, "and together I am sure you will find your way."

"So our whole marriage has been a sham?" came the subdued tones of Nia.

Mr. Hawkins closed his eyes, sighed and then gave them a look that was quite clear: the rest of this conversation would be done in private. Clarke took Lexa's hand and pulled her away from the unexpected turn of events. She continued to hold her hand even once they were outside of the hotel. There were some graces afforded to them because of their gender. Not many would wonder at two young women holding hands. Eventually Lexa came back to herself and glanced at Clarke and their joined hands.

"Well, that was something," Lexa muttered, to which Clarke grinned and replied, "I do believe that will be the end of her meddling."

Lexa frowned. "I'm not so sure, Clarke. Roan's humiliation is nothing to her own. She may strike back now with even more force."

"Oh, I do not think so, Lexa. For if she strikes us down, we will not hesitate to return the favour." She squeezed her hand. "Mutually assured destruction, if you will."

"I could not betray my uncle in such a way," sighed Lexa. "Not after his interference today. Without it I fear there would have been blood on my hands."

Clarke nudged her shoulder as they continued to slowly make their way to the carriage further along the curved courtyard. "Do you really believe I would have stood idly by as you throttled your aunt in the name of love? I am more than capable of _handling_ you, Lexa." Clarke glanced around, and reasonably assured there was no one watching them out of the many windows lining the mammoth hotel, she subtly squeezed Lexa's derriere. Lexa jumped in fright and then hissed, "Clarke! Someone could have seen!"

"Forgive me, Lexa," she said, not sounding at all sorry, "but I simply can't keep my hands to myself when you display such fiery protectiveness for my benefit." She leaned in close and whispered, "It is fortunate that we have so many beds at our disposal. I intend to wear one of them out today." Clarke smirked at the hitch in Lexa's breath this declaration elicited.

As soon as they reached their carriage, Clarke yanked her inside and began kissing her senseless. The carriage was large enough to allow them a measure of privacy, so that Lexa only protested this action for a few moments. Then, reassured, she fell wholeheartedly into Clarke's agenda. So much so that they were completely unaware of the carriage coming to a stop.

Someone cleared their throat loudly and tapped on the glass of the door. "We have arrived, mesdames," said Gustus gruffly.

Somewhat flushed and mortified, they collected themselves and realigned any articles of clothing that had become askew. Rather than mend Lexa's hair, Clarke simply snatched up an errant hat and placed that on her head, attempting to hide the worst of it. Satisfied enough with their appearances, they exited the carriage and made their way up the six flights of stairs to the top of the hotel. Once alone, Clarke pushed Lexa against the wall of their bedroom and proceeded to undo all of their previous realignments until they were half bare. They were so lost in one another that they never succeeded in making it to the bed...the first time.

* * *

Another month passed by in a flash of limbs and heat and secret places only Lexa dared tread. Clarke's mind and body had been opened to an entirely new world of artistic expression, and she ventured there as often as she could. It was hard to fathom how far she had come in so little time. To think she had once been thrilled by the mere touch of a man's lips to her hand. How innocent she had been then. It made her laugh to think of it.

Mr. Hawkins visited with them a number of times during his stay there. Clarke had quite taken a shine to him, just as she had his son. It seemed the apple did not fall too far from the tree where they were concerned. Mid April he came to say his goodbyes, his business having finally been concluded. His wife had made an early return back to New York City some weeks ago, so she was not present for this parting. Whatever Matthew had said to her seemed to have calmed her need for revenge, and they had heard nary a word of her since the day of revelation. Clarke thought perhaps he promised to secure a divorce once they returned home. Such things were not as uncommon as one might suppose, especially for the wealthy. He would not want to long displease his wife in this regard, lest she have a case of loose lips. The Hawkins did not need a second member being admitted to New York City's vile jail cells.

* * *

A few days later as they lounged together on the sofa, Clarke in Lexa's arms, Clarke read aloud a short letter from Octavia. Their correspondence had been as frequent as it could be considering their current locales and the amount of labour going into The Sterling's recently acquired farmland, which more often than not left Octavia exhausted and witless.

' _Dearest Clarke,_

 _I wish to start this letter by thanking you once again for the wondrous artwork you have sent us these past few months. Whenever I look upon them, I feel as though you are with me, and it brings joy to my heart._

 _As to goings on here, the soil has been fully tilled and we have begun to sow the seeds of new growth. I found this rather fitting considering my own circumstances. The baby is beginning to make itself known, and Lincoln delights in placing his hand or ear to my belly in an effort to feel the fruits of his loins. He was convinced I was simply pulling his leg until just the other day when he finally felt our child kick most heartily. It is wonderful undergoing this transformation with him by my side. I could not imagine another more kind and compassionate and loving human being to spend my life with, though by the sounds of things, we appear to be similarly matched. It is curious how we have both attracted such kind souls to our own. I only wished that you did not need to hide your love for one another. Perhaps one day you can make it known, and if such a day should come, Lincoln and I will be the first to congratulate you, and damn all those that say otherwise._

 _Well, Lincoln has finished preparing dinner, and as I am quite famished, I suppose this is as fine a place to end this as any._

 _Affectionately yours, Octavia'  
_

They sat in comfortable silence until Clarke sighed.

"You want to go back."

It wasn't a question, but Clarke answered all the same. "Yes. I think it's time."

Against her head, Lexa nodded her agreement. "All right." A brief pause and then, "Before we go, there's one last activity I wish to try with you."

Interest peaked, Clarke turned in her embrace, the better to see her features. "And that would be?"

Lexa smirked. "You shall see soon enough, Clarke. For now, let us go for a stroll. My legs are stiff from all this sitting about."

* * *

Lexa led her out to a field in one of Paris' many parks. At first glance, Clarke could not fathom the reason for being here, but then she saw quite the sight, something she had only heard tell of, but never seen in person. A hot air balloon. Its majestic reds and royal blues commanded the attention of all those who laid eyes on it. The balloon was massive, expanding outwards and upwards by an impressive amount. The basket by comparison seemed small and insignificant and hardly the sort of thing one would want to place their life in, but place their life in, they did.

Lexa grabbed the ropes and hopped into the basket effortlessly. She then held a hand out to offer Clarke assistance in accomplishing a similar goal. Being her usual self, Clarke attempted to ascend without aid and paid for it by nearly losing her balance and falling several feet backwards. Luckily Lexa's reflexives were fast and assured, and she grabbed onto her hands and helped her into the basket.

"Where is the operator?" wondered Clarke, after the embarrassment had subsided. Lexa just looked at her. "Is there anything you cannot do?" muttered Clarke in awe and some slight irritation.

"There really is not much to it, once it's been set up," Lexa explained as she released the weights and they began to drift off. "The wind does most of the work." Once assured that the balloon was functioning properly, she came over and wrapped her arms around Clarke. "My father was a flight enthusiast. He believed that mankind was destined to take to the skies permanently, so as to be closer to God."

Clarke could understand the sentiment. She had often wondered what it would be like to live among the stars, to be among the heavens. At the same time, if she lived among them, she would not be able to paint them, and that would be a shame. For after female subjects, the stars were her most cherished, invoking something within her that she did not quite understand. Meeting Lexa on a starry night only further served to solidify her place in Clarke's heart.

The sprawling city was breathtaking from this heretofore unknown aerial view. Clarke could see many of the places she and Lexa had shared secret embraces and kisses, and she wondered when next she would see them again, or if she ever would. Her hand twitched, itching to capture Paris' majesty, similar feelings flowing through her as they did that fateful starry night.

Within a short while, everything and everyone was reduced to nothing more than indistinguishable blurs, blending into one another in a symphony of colour. The higher they rose, the more insignificant all of their past and future troubles seemed. And the only thing that mattered was the warmth and unconditional love of the kindred spirit holding her close.

* * *

 ***He was actually poisoned. Kinda funny it was called Polaris too. Their ship basically crashed and burned at the end...  
**

 **So ending it here because a) I'm tired of writing this fic b) POI is on again tomorrow complete with Shooty goodness which may or may not translate into fic material and I hate leaving fics in limbo for weeks/months on end  
**

 **I considered having a whole sex shop or lingerie scene or something but honestly I've done the whole lap dance thing with them in another fic, so I didn't really see the point in duplicating it again. Plus it's no fun without an M rating.  
**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading all the way through! Until we meet again...**


End file.
